


Save A Cowboy (Ride A Goalie)

by kinetikatrue



Category: Hockey RPF, Montreal Canadiens RPF
Genre: Epistolary, M/M, endgame: fuckbuddies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-02 11:53:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2811077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinetikatrue/pseuds/kinetikatrue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Carey started talking to Karl he was looking for a distraction.  P.K. kept talking to Roy because he liked their conversations. But things kept getting more and more complicated. There has to be a way to untangle the whole mess, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save A Cowboy (Ride A Goalie)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marina/gifts).



> For Marina - I'd had the idea for this story for a while, but your likes helped to give it a depth it might not have had, otherwise. So, Happy Holidays - and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Also, thanks to the village who held my hand, let me talk plot points over with them - and went over the results and picked out my mistakes. Any remaining errors are my own.

June 26, 2009

P.K.'s standing in the kitchen, reading a text that came in while he was walking downstairs - his guys naming a bar to meet at, not Johnny responding to his earlier _better get used to losing, sucker_ \- when his dad comes in and goes to the fridge to get a glass of water. P.K. figures on sending his acknowledgement and letting his dad know he's about to head out and doesn't know exactly when he'll back. But that he'll call if it's going to be super late, so they don't worry.

He's just typed out _cool - see all u beauties there_ and hit send when his dad pulls his head back out of the fridge and asks, "Do you know who I ran into today?" And without waiting for P.K. to respond, answers his own question, says, "Mrs. M. She was out buying new running shoes for Anastasia, for her training over the summer. Maybe you could go running together sometime." If the way he's smiling is anything to go by, he thinks suggesting they work out is especially clever.

Anastasia would leave him in the dust these days, P.K. thinks - she runs track and plays soccer - but he just tells his dad, "Maybe," trying not to engage. He's supposed to be walking to the bus stop right now. And while Anastasia's nice, and honestly a lot of fun, P.K. knows what his dad's angling for, no matter how innocuous combined training sessions might seem. He's really not looking for anybody to date, not when the only thing it would add to his life are expectations he doesn't want anything to do with. Going drinking and pulling with his friends - as he's doing tonight, if he can just escape the kitchen and this conversation - suit him just fine for now.

His dad isn't about to be deterred that easily, though. "Mrs. M gave me her number to pass on to you - Anastasia got a new phone for her birthday. She thought you shouldn't have to go through us old folks to plan things." He holds out a piece of folded lined paper - it's torn from the little notebook he's carried everywhere with him ever since P.K. can remember.

P.K.'s sighing inside, but he smiles at his dad, says, "Right now the only plan I'm worried about involves meeting up with the guys; there's some toasts to Johnny that need drinking - but, thanks," and takes the paper. He won't be rude enough to turn it down entirely, though he's just fine with only hanging out with Anastasia if they happen to run into each other somewhere. They're still friends, sure, but not the way they were when they were little.

So, of course, because P.K. couldn't keep his own dumb mouth shut, his dad takes that opening and runs with it, suggests, "You could invite Anastasia - I'm sure she'd want to celebrate Johnny going first." Which, P.K. knows persistence is just part of the Subban make-up, but boy could he stand to not have his dad turning it on him about this.

Particularly since Anastasia's never gotten to know Johnny particularly well - and even that's beside the point when P.K.'s running late. "The guys are already going to be waiting for me - I'm not going to complicate things by inviting her at the last minute. And she probably has plans already, anyway; it's Friday night." He's done more than enough sets of the 'wouldn't you like to meet so-and-so's daughter' dance in the months since he got home from Belleville; he's got this down.

His dad says, fondly chiding, "You could be her Friday night plans if you called her." He waves aside P.K.'s weeks of Twist and Habs development camp, lets his open palm suggest there's still plenty of summer spreading out before him, and adds, "We are not already planning your wedding, Pernell; hockey comes first, of course. But you will not even make plans with her, a beautiful young woman…" Apparently he's hit his limit on hands-off meddling after two months of P.K. turning down every one of his offers.

P.K. grins at that and tells his dad, "I promise I don't need your help to meet girls, Papa." Because he definitely doesn't; going drinking and dancing with his guys means he meets plenty - beautiful girls, smart girls, fun girls, athletic girls - none of whom think what they're doing is about anything but that night. Guys, too. Daughters of family friends and co-workers and church ladies are gonna think he's thinking about the future - if he calls them saying his parents gave him their numbers, anyway. And that way lies those stupid expectations. "But it's draft day, today."

"And all you want to think about is hockey. I cannot argue with that, not when Johnny Tavares went first overall," he says - and smiles, wide and genuinely pleased for the son of his old school-friend.

So P.K. takes his dad's blessing, slides his phone back into his pocket, tells him, "I'll call if it looks like I'm going to be home especially late," and scrams; he's already missed the bus he was originally planning to take to Mississaugua. And, as his dad said, Johnny went first overall.

***

June 27, 2009

There's no placing in exhibition events, but Carey's time in the pairs roping was respectable. His loop around the calf's hind-legs landed nice and neatly - and Comet did everything he asked of her, herding the calf and getting him perfectly placed to land the rope. He'll have another go down in Vancouver, in a week, and maybe by the end of the summer he'll feel like he could actually compete next off-season.

For now, he's got a sister to entertain.

Kayla's waiting for him, leaning against the door, when he exits the barn, Comet fed and brushed and bedded down for the night. She'll want to eat at Red Tomato, same way she always does when she's in Williams Lake, Carey knows - for the novelty of choosing pizza toppings. He just asks, "We walking - or are you driving?" His truck's got Comet's trailer hooked to it.

She pushes off the door, says, "Walking - I could stand to stretch my legs," and starts suiting action to word.

He falls into easy step with her - and they make the short walk from the Stampede Grounds in companionable silence, get a table without too much waiting, get their orders in. Conversation remains idle through the wine and bread-sticks and caesar salad - and dies again entirely when their pies arrive. 

But once they've both put away a few slices, Kayla leans back in her seat and grins, chirps, "Look at you, living the high life, spending your Saturday night going out for pizza with your sister."

Carey says, mild, "I could just not buy you dinner." He will, regardless - and even if he didn't, Kayla could afford her own, but there're principles involved.

Kayla smacks the hand not holding his current slice of pizza lightly and says, "But, seriously, bro - I know it's all hockey, hockey, hockey up in there - and when it isn't, it's rodeo, but - "

Carey cuts her off, because a) not true. "But nothing. I've got plenty going in my social life - hell, some of the Montreal press would say too much - and I don't have time to date anybody." And b), as he's just noted, the time thing. Relationships tend to be massive time-sucks, on an order Carey REALLY doesn't have time for. Not if he wants to be the Habs' starter next season. She can take her plans for getting him involved in online dating and shove 'em.

Taking a big bite of wheat crust, steak and onion, feeling the garlic burst over his tongue - well, it's a definite improvement on talking about how much he doesn't need an actual relationship, right now - and chewing obnoxiously at Kayla feels even better. 

She makes a face at that and takes a neat bite of her slice of pepperoni, pepper and onion - and says, "Well, if you're going to be a child about it."

Carey smirks, says, "I am only twenty-one - I think that's young enough to not be worrying about whether I'm ever going to meet somebody. It's not like I feel unloved or anything. Most of the time." He doesn't add _not like right now_ , but she's known him her entire life; she'll hear it, anyway.

Kayla rolls her eyes at him. "Twenty-two in a month and a half. And before you know it, you'll be in your mid-twenties and everybody will be getting married and having kids - and where will you be, then?"

"Probably still not feeling lonely or unloved. Except by you." Sure, he can imagine a vague future where he has a relationship and kids to go with it, but it's not something with an expiration date in his mind, not the way building a career in the NHL is. Plus, he likes his space - and isn't interested in letting just anybody into it longer term.

She knows exactly how stubborn he is - and how he'll dig his heels in if she pushes too hard, so it's no surprise when she says, "Well, the Farmers Only account will be there, waiting, if you ever change your mind."

Which, Carey guesses it will - the Habs' media team have drilled it into him that nothing ever really goes away on the internet - but he doesn't exactly foresee ever reaching a point where he actually wants to use it. What he does want to use is his dessert fork; he did well enough today to justify a little more indulgence. And thankfully he isn't on the previous summer's weight-loss training regimen - so he can have it.

***

June 28 - July 3, 2009

Simmer had said, back at World Juniors, that that was how they always did it: a week at the Twist mothership in North Vancouver, then the rest of the summer back in Whitby, working out of the apartment he and Stewie shared. P.K. can see why they would want to start with this week, though. What he could see of British Columbia during their plane's descent was all fucking beautiful - and if the pictures on the website and in the brochure are anything to go by, they're going to get to see a bit of that up close and personal, trail-running for cardio on an off-ice day.

Not that P.K.'s a particular fan of running - he likes his cardio better when there's ice or a bike or, hell, even a pool involved - but he figures if he's going to spend a week in Vancouver, then he'd better not go home without seeing as much of it as possible; it's not like he'll be back for the Olympics.

He's still standing by the baggage carousel, waiting for his hockey bag and suitcase to appear - and Gags and Johnny to reappear from their bathroom break - when the back-slap comes, accompanied by an enthusiastic, "Pernell, my man!" 

It's Kaner, of course - and P.K. pulls him in for a half-hug with an equally enthusiastic, "Evander Kane - didn't know you were going to be here. Guess Simmer got to a bunch of us." Kaner's a good surprise, though, means that if they manage to go dancing P.K. won't be the only guy with moves on the floor.

Kaner shakes his head, says, "Naw, man - I started doing Twist all on my own. I'm just playing local boy chauffeur today," and unfolds a poster-board sign that says 'Mr. Simmonds, Mr. Stewart, Mr. Smith-Pelly' in perfectly formed glitter paint letters. P.K.'s fucking impressed. And even more so when it sinks in that Kaner's broken out the suit and tie and shades to go with it. That's commitment to a role, right there - particularly in the off-season.

He tells Kaner, "Now that's the kind of effort you wanna see out of a guy who went fourth. Think Simmer's really gonna appreciate it," gets a high-five in return - and then gets dog-piled by Johnny and Gags, returned from the bathroom with even more of their guys in tow.

It's looking like the start to a GREAT week, if P.K. does say so himself.

 

They all go out to dinner that night, but rein in the drinking afterwards because of the kids. Which is just as well, since the first morning of Twist starts bright and early - and it starts with taking drylands benchmarks which leave P.K. feeling a bit like he's been asked to do the Combine lite. And that's before they do the afternoon's on-ice workout. But it's what P.K. came to Twist to get, so his muscles can say what they like, but it's good.

The eight of them from Toronto being in the same group leaves P.K. feeling a bit nostalgic for his minor hockey days whenever he runs drills with or against Johnny and Stammer. Which, in turn, makes him even more eager to make it to the show so he can have the chance to take that feeling to the next level, awesome fuel for pushing his training hard that week. The Benn brothers and Kaner, plus five other BC guys - two more D and three forwards - are also in their cohort, but P.K. still ends up running the majority of the on-ice drills with Jordie Benn. And while P.K. wouldn't have minded testing his chemistry with the other D more, working with Jordie, who's a hard worker who doesn't take himself too seriously, is just fine with him. 

It doesn't hurt that P.K. totally gets being a proud older brother, since boy does Jordie have that part covered.

Fortunately for P.K.'s need to smack him, Jordie's conversation isn't entirely 'Jamie this' and 'Jamie that', though there's definitely enough to be noticeable, equal parts Jamie being awesome and Jamie doing dumb shit. P.K.'s happy to respond in kind on behalf of Malcolm and Jordan, since who doesn't like ragging on their younger brothers? But, really, they mostly don't get to stand around talking when they're on the ice; their group's not big enough to make for long waits running drills and the guys in charge seem determined to keep them moving as much as possible whenever possible.

That's true off the ice, too - five days of weights and resistance and core work, footwork drills and stretching, plus time on the bikes and the promised trail run. They even spend one afternoon in the pool, swimming sets. By the end of the day, most days, P.K.'s ready to eat everything in sight and get some sleep, though he makes an exception when Kaner drags them out to a club one night, mid-week - P.K.'s always ready to get his dance on, fuck exhaustion.

By the time Friday, Day 5, rolls around and they're taking end of week benchmarks, P.K.'s convinced he'll be returning next year and he definitely feels ready to take development camp by storm.

 

Then, that evening, Jordie declare that they can't leave BC without visiting a good country-western bar. And while country's not exactly P.K.'s usual scene, he figures a drink's a drink. And it might be fun to try line-dancing. Plus, the rest of his guys seem into it, laughing and chirping each other about whether they packed anything appropriate to wear.

P.K. rolls his eyes and dresses in a colourfully plaid button-down and nice dark jeans, no oversized belt-buckle or cowboy hat necessary - he's not playing dress-up when he's already got perfectly good clothes for going out with him.

In the end, Skinny ends up in a hat - courtesy of a smirking Jordie - Simmer pulls out a huge, shiny Batman belt buckle from somewhere, and Stammer almost makes them late with polishing his boots. But eventually they get to the bar, get themselves a table and a few pitchers of beer - first round courtesy of the Benns - and settle in. P.K. starts out talking to Johnny and Kaner and Simmer and Stewie, while Skinny and Stammer and the Benns get dragged off to dance by some girls before they've even had a chance to drink any beer. Somewhere in there, Gags wanders off towards the bar - P.K. thinks to see about food, always a good call when there're hockey players involved - and Devo settles in to people-watch.

Just then, Johnny's telling a story P.K.'s heard a million times before - and could probably tell along with him, honestly - so he figures he can tune it out for the moment in favor of seeing whether what Devo's doing is any better entertainment.

From what P.K. can tell, he doesn't seem to be following any one particular person or group closely, just observing the bar and its patrons. Which P.K. thinks makes for interesting viewing for kids from Toronto. P.K.'s thinking he might-could spend some time doing the same - it really is good people-watching - when his attention is caught by a pair of guys leaning against the bar, and more by one of the guys in particular. He's talking to the bartender, holding a pint in one hand and gesturing to the other guy with the other. And, fuck, does he look familiar. For a moment P.K. can't figure out why. 

But then the guy pushes off the bar and turns around and it suddenly becomes clear exactly why P.K. knows him: he's Carey Price, every six-foot-plus cowboy-hatted and -booted inch of him

At which point P.K. forgets all about the conversation he was theoretically still a part of and starts waving at Pricey - he may've just spent a week in BC, but he hadn't expected to see the dude until Habs training camp in September and he's not gonna turn down a chance to shoot the shit with him. Pricey tells a good story and is the perfect dryly sarcastic foil to P.K.'s enthusiasm. Hell, P.K.'ll climb on top of their table or wade out into the crowd if that's what it takes. They may still be slightly more than acquaintances than full-on friends, but he has every intention of changing that if they get to spend the season in the same place this go-round. Pricey's awesome.

Fortunately that isn't necessary; he does get Pricey's attention - after a solid chunk of (possibly demented-looking) waving; P.K. has no shame (and feels no shame in admitting that) - and gets him to abandon the guy he was talking to to start wading through the crowd in their direction.

A minute or so later, he's sliding into the chair between P.K. and Stewie, saying, "What's a city boy like you doing in a hick place like this?" His smile's a barely there smirk, but it's good enough for P.K.

He grins back, says, "Playing tourist - those guys," and jerks a thumb toward the Benns, out on the dance-floor, "said we had to see a cowboy bar while we were in town. Still waiting for somebody to ask me to dance, though. Guess I shoulda worn fancier boots." He turns in his seat so Pricey can see his blue suede chukkas.

Pricey does look, giving them a good once-over - and when his eyes travel back up to P.K.'s face, he's really obviously judging P.K.'s taste in boots, looking like he can't decide whether to laugh or roll his eyes. "Well, maybe if those had a bit more of a heel…though, you're not doing the asking yourself, because why? Never known you to be a shy one."

P.K. comes back at him, easy as anything, with, "Well, I'm the guest here, right? And I'm totally an equal-opportunity kind of guy, none of this girls should wait to be asked shit for me." He'd totally say yes to a guy, too, if one of them wandered by and seemed interested in teaching P.K. to line dance, but he doesn't say that. His guys already know, probably Pricey, too, if he's bothered to notice. And all the rest of it's true enough.

Pricey snorts, "Or maybe you're just too lazy to be bothered," and takes a pull of his beer.

"That is...not an unfair assessment," P.K. allows. Training at Twist had felt especially long that day, between the skating drills and the drylands and all the final benchmarks the trainers had wanted to take. Still, if P.K. really wanted to dance, he'd be out there - he never lets something like feeling a little tired get in the way of having a good time. But, as he tells Pricey, "Dancing sounds nice, but it doesn't sound better than beer and some good conversation."

Pricey smiles, small but real, but just says, "And you think you're gonna find any of that around here?"

And P.K. grins back, says, "Well, I'm involved, aren't I?"

And Pricey snorts again and chirps, "I guess we're all doomed, then." 

P.K. totally sees through him, though - he knows Pricey thinks he's okay company - so he just goes for a change of subject to something that isn't the everybody chirp P.K. hour and asks, "So why are you in Vancouver? 'Cos this definitely ain't that dinky lake place I know you're from and I'm not so new I think everybody in BC just hangs out in VanCity all the time."

Pricey says, dry as dust, "I'm pretty sure you also know I do rodeo."

And, yeah, P.K. did know the hats and cowboy boots and everything weren't just for show - he's done the training camp what I did on my summer vacation thing with Pricey a couple times over now and tying things up with ropes has come up every time. Still, it's Vancouver, so it's a valid thing to ask, "They do rodeo around here?"

Pricey tips his head to indicate their surroundings and gives P.K. a look that practically screams 'duh', but just says, "On Canada Day weekend they do."

P.K. nods, because fair enough - Toronto does crazy-ass shit around Canada Day, too - which just leaves the obvious question, "Get your ass handed to you by any livestock, yet?" And then he grins, because Pricey's trying to not look outraged.

After a moment, he gets his expression under control, though, and says, forcibly calm, "We're not up until tomorrow. And I haven't had a cow get the best of me in years."

P.K. can feel his grin widening into a sunny, shit-eating smile at that as he says, "Well, good luck, man - and I'm sure you'll do fine; at least cows give you a little more to hold onto than pucks."

Pricey doesn't rise to P.K.'s chirp, which, to be fair, was maybe kind of lame, just says, "At least pucks don't actively try to get away from you."

And P.K. has to snort at that, because, okay, point. Hockey would suck if the puck had an actual mind of its own and decided to use it instead of just obeying the whims of physics, the ice and whoever touched it last. It's bad enough under those conditions.

Pricey shakes his head a little, like maybe he's wondering how they end up having these conversations, but just switches subjects and asks, "More to the point, what's the biggest little Habs fan from Toronto doing in BC?"

That one's an easy answer, "Getting a week in at Twist before development camp. Gotta get more of a jump on the competition this year if I want to play in the big leagues. Simmer suggested it." And when P.K. turns to gesture in Simmer's direction, he finds they've gained an audience, all five of the other guys sitting at the table watching them avidly, looking fit to burst from not chirping.

Stewie pipes up first, says, "I was gonna ask if this is what they're always like and then I realized that probably none of you actually know," and laughs, shaking his head

But Johnny just shrugs and says, "That is pretty normal for P.K., though: talk your ear off - and keep up with pretty much anything you throw at him." P.K. can tell from the look he's getting Johnny'll totally be giving him shit about Pricey later.

Just then, Simmer's nodding, saying, "Can't keep him down, 'specially not if you get him mad. Takes a lot to do that, though."

Devo's still staying quiet - but Kaner looks like he's about to turn up the chirping compete level, so P.K. doesn't wait to let him get a word in edgewise, just takes back control of the conversation with, "What can I say? I am pretty easy-going." Though Simmer's totally right about what he's like if you get him going.

Pricey's not about to just let that lie, though, chirps right back, "Yeah, easy-going like a river - lulls people into a false sense of security looking all calm and shit and then surprises 'em by sucking them into the current and spitting them out who knows where."

That gets Simmer and Johnny and Stewie laughing - and Kaner saying something about spitting vs. swallowing - but P.K. just grins and comes back at Pricey with, "Awww, babe - are you saying I'm a force of nature? That's so nice," voice practically dripping sweetness. He's having so much fun, just going back and forth with Pricey; it always amuses P.K. that people think Pricey's the quiet, stoic type, when if you just know what to say to him you can totally get him going over practically anything, get him dishing out chirps just as easy as he takes them.

Pricey grumbles, "You're a force of something, that's for sure." But he's smiling when he says it, or at least his eyes are, so whatever. Pricey totally likes him.

"On-ice destruction, no question," Johnny says, no suggestion about it, not with two-thirds of a lifetime of P.K.-related hockey experience to back him up.

"And off - those dimples should be registered weapons the way the girls respond," Simmer adds. And, yeah, P.K.'s gonna smile about that one - he had done okay for himself at World Juniors, for sure. And not just with the girls, either.

And that makes Pricey start laughing, stretch one of his freakishly long goalie arms around P.K., and pinch his far cheek. 

P.K. gets ahold of that hand with one of his before it can go in for a second pinch - because, no, P.K.'s cheeks aren't there just for people's pinching convenience - and snakes out the other to grab the hat off Pricey's head and says, "You can have it back when you prove you're actually mature enough to deserve it."

"Just saying, but pulling his pigtails back by stealing his hat isn't any more mature," Johnny says. And, boy, P.K. has terrible friends. He hopes Johnny ends up getting to play for the Isles this year and P.K. and Pricey get to stop him scoring him any goals, ever, all the time - or for four games, anyway. Since they have the bad luck of being in different divisions post- season schedule reversion. 

He tells him, "No pigtail pulling involved, you dick - you try having people want to pinch your cheeks all the time and see how you like it." And, yeah, okay, it's mostly his older relatives who go after P.K.'s, but he's not turning down the chance to retaliate when it's not. Fuck that noise.

Not that Johnny's wrong to suggest that he flirts with Pricey sometimes, though, given that P.K. flirts with just about everybody he isn't related to he feels at all fond of. And he isn't above getting a little saucy with some of his non-cheek-pinching aunts. Or the occasional asshole he wants to cause discomfort without getting his fists involved. Necessarily.

Of course, Pricey stole his hat back while P.K. was being indignant about the sanctity of his cheeks in Johnny's direction (see again: freakishly long goalie arms), so after that he has to smack Pricey's wandering, cheek-pinching hand. And that devolves into a bit of a slap fight, which only ends when they almost knock over one of the nearly-empty pitchers of beer.

While they're sitting around getting their breath back, Stewie says, "I thought d-men and goalies were supposed to be a united front," sounding almost sad to think that they're not. Which, P.K. didn't think the Avs organization was that happy families about each other.

"It's the off-season, so all bets are off," Simmer tells him, trying to sound wise.

And after that, the conversation turns to tales from the off-season: Pricey's rodeos and fishing; P.K.'s crowd's adventures in Toronto nightlife; everybody's workout regimens; everybody else's successes in hooking up; and, of course, the draft. That spurs some toasting to Johnny going first and Kaner going fourth - accompanied by some razzing about going to the Isles and Thrashers - and Simmer and Stewie and Pricey telling stories from their own draft days. And when Gags shows back up - somewhere in the middle of the tales from the sex files portion of events, bearing two large baskets of fries - he immediately starts giving Johnny shit for his pick-up technique.

Skinny and Stammer and the Benns wander off the dance floor in the middle of Gags telling what he swears is the absolutely true story of how Johnny crashed and burned trying to get their waitress's phone number when they went out to dinner with their parents after the draft - and how his dad told him, completely sincerely, to 'maybe mention he played for the Isles next time'. Which makes P.K. and Pricey crack up, since, seriously, in Montreal? Not even playing for the Habs makes pulling a sure thing.

P.K. never ends up trying line dancing, but between the company and the beer, it ends up being a pretty good time anyway.

Back at their hotel, he wanders around the room he's sharing with Stammer, drinking a couple bottles of water and slowly putting things back in his bags as he gets undressed. Stammer's in the bathroom, getting ready for bed - and probably staring at himself in the mirror, trying to decide if the zits along his hairline are super noticeable. As P.K. could tell him, they're a lot more noticeable when he's trying to hide them - otherwise they mostly just blend in. But Stammer's not asking and all P.K. really cares about is getting his turn at the sink, checking his email and going straight to sleep afterwards; he's flying out way too early the next morning to make staying up for the experience at all worth it.

After he's done checking himself in for his flight, he puts his laptop back in his backpack and turns out by the light beside his bed. His flight is all too soon - and he never sleeps well on flights, not even when he gets a first class seat. For now, he gets to say goodnight to Stammer and work on falling asleep to the sound of him pushing buttons on his DS.

***

July 13, 2009

Carey doesn't bother to check his email until he's back from Vancouver, too busy roping cattle and going drinking to worry about any communication that doesn't involve his mouth and/or his phone. And once he's home, he just wants to hang out at the house with the horses and the dogs, giving the ones he didn't take south with him extra love. Also, there're fish in the creek to catch and things in the woods to hunt.

Anything that doesn't involve thinking about P.K. - he'd liked their chirp-flirting back in VanCity a little too much for his no teammates rule's comfort - or going into town.

Because the thing about coming back to Anahim Lake in the summer is that everybody knows him - and he always has been and always will be plain old Carey Price there, as a result. Being the son of the chief means something, sure - his mom's awesome - and so does being a guy who plays in the NHL these days, but mostly that's just that his neighbors have an even longer list of things about him to have opinions on, from the state of his hair to the state of his love life to the state of his glove-side save. They're proud of him, no question, but if he was looking for respect, well, it'd be a total lost cause. So it's a good thing he grew up there and knows what to expect.

He hasn't been spending much time in town since the season ended. 

Sure, part of it's that he hadn't been feeling very social at the beginning of the summer - it might've even counted as sulking - so he spent those first few weeks, right after the Habs got knocked out of the playoffs, fishing and practicing roping and occasionally getting in a light workout. There was also a fair amount of beer consumed. But no matter what Kayla claims, there wasn't any whining. He went and acted as shootboss for the Bull-o-Rama in Kitimat back in mid-June, and after that his mid-summer rodeo exhibition schedule had kicked in: Williams Lake, Vancouver - and finally, this weekend, his hometown Stampede. 

But part of it was also that he wasn't sure he wanted to hear what people would have to say if he gave them the chance.

The good news: coming out for the Stampede and doing well in exhibition roping apparently balances out being good enough to get his team into the playoffs but not good enough to keep them there past the first round. The bad: it leads to a sizeable number of the unattached rodeo girls who swing that way making passes at him in ways that make it all too clear that they'd be interested in a bit more than just riding the little cowboy. He still ends up picking up - finds a quiet place to park his truck and gets his partner off laid out on a blanket spread out in the bed - but, for the most part, they're worse options than P.K. Despite not being teammates.

All that together adds up to enough to start him thinking about the Farmers Only account Kayla set up for him when he wakes up the next morning.

He's ignored it - except to lock it down - ever since he got the account set-up confirmation email. But breakfast sees him considering that the incident with P.K. in the bar in VanCity suggests that he could maybe use a distraction. He stabs at his eggs disgruntledly and thinks _Kayla's still wrong_. She's been wrong from the start, thinking that it'd make him happier to get out there and meet someone. Why can't she see that he's been doing just fine the way he is? He's got her and their parents, his dogs and his horses, his friends - and the occasional dose of rodeo people for variety. And it's not like he's ever had trouble picking up.

But, well, he's maybe going to have to admit, _only to himself_ : it doesn't get to matter whether it'll make him happier, if he wants to stick to his rules - and that displeasing thought warrants some frustrated crunching of toast.

That fucking dumb cycle of thoughts follows him through his morning work-out. His weight work sees him telling himself firmly: it wouldn't be someone to start dating, since he hasn't changed his mind about having time for that. Just an outlet for his badly-focused flirting energies, which he has some vague idea is the site's basic unit of interaction. Maybe it was in that first email he got? Along with the information that the site thinks it's okay to be a man looking to meet other men. Which, gee, what a surprise. He already knew that just fine, even though he's not aiming to be the first out guy in the NHL. Or, as previously noted, to meet any guys, unless all they want is to go for a ride or invite him over to play some ball hockey, maybe have a beer. He's looking to train his ass off over the summer and see about turning himself back into the Habs' undisputed #1.

His mantra while stretching runs: if you can just find an outlet for your stupid P.K.-related urges, everything will be great. 

And he's still turning it over in his head when their farrier interrupts his core work by calling to reschedule for the third time that month - she was supposed to come out and reshoe Comet - because of an emergency call out past Williams Lake. It's unfortunate, but apparently just how the summer is going to go. He can roll with it, as long as they can get the shoeing and trim done before the end of July - he's not due to take her to a rodeo again for another few weeks. 

For now, there's the rest of his core work, a shower, lunch, and a little roping skills practice afterwards, lassoing fence posts and the dogs and his cobbled-together targets.

Eventually, though, he ends up out on the deck with a beer and his laptop, checking his email and staring idly at the folder he set up to direct all the messages from Farmers Only into. And, yeah, after a while, beer, boredom and curiosity - plus the fact that the message count is only in the double digits, which doesn't seem too intimidating - get the better of him. So he clicks. He'll admit to being curious about what kind of people on a dating site catering to farmers think he'd be the kind of guy they'd like to date. 

That's not committing to anything.

The answer to that question turns out to be: an interesting mix. There're gay bull-riders, prairie guys more interested in wheat than Carey will ever be, a few dudes whose boots clearly never get dusty, equally clearly just in it for the cowboy image. Plus one guy from BC Carey thinks he might want to be friends with...but nothing more, not unless the guy does way more for him in person than in profile.

Still, it's enough to get him logging into the site and trying out its search function, seeing if 'friends' is the best it has to offer - he's not after cowboy chic or the price of wheat, and while he can respect the crazy necessary to be a bull-rider, since he's a goalie, himself; he doesn't need a double-helping of that in a relationship.

He really isn't interested in dating anybody, but if he were, there's got to be something better out there than bull-riders and their crazy, right? Guys with a little more muscle on them. Maybe even some kind of ass. Carey knows he's more rangy than anything else, himself, but even if he were looking for someone to date, it wouldn't be someone who looked too much like himself. He's not some kind of goddamned narcissist. 

Unfortunately, looks isn't one of the criteria Farmer's Only allows you to search on, not beyond the obvious like hair and eye color, which means he's stuck with dark-eyed guys who like hockey and animals.

***

July 14, 2009

At the end of his week at Twist, P.K.'s plan had been to fly out of Vancoiver, stop over in Toronto long enough to do laundry and attend the annual Subban family reunion, attend development camp in Montreal - and then come back to Ontario and see about getting a place at Twist Whitby for the last six weeks of their summer sessions. It's a great plan, involving not having to live with his family for the rest of the summer. And that last, glorious part of it went right out the window part-way through the family reunion, when P.K. got introduced to one of his cousins' new husband - and discovered that he was really interested in the guy's thoughts on training.

By the end of the party, he'd committed to coming back to Toronto to train with Chance.

And that's a shame, because while P.K. loves his family - he really does - coming home to live with them over the summers gets harder with every passing year. He's 20, now, has legally been an adult for two years. And, yeah, he still lives with a billet family during the season, but none of them have known him since he was in diapers. Which makes it easier for them to give him more freedom, give him the space to live his own life. Twist Whitby was looking like a great compromise.

But Twist Whitby is out and Chance Laylor is in - and now that P.K.'s returned from Montreal and development camp, he's facing down living in his childhood bedroom for the rest of the summer.

He doesn't mind so much how his dad knows his schedule as well as he does - maybe even better, honestly, the way only a guy who's spent his entire career dealing with administrivia could - not when the result is drop-offs and pick-ups as often as his dad can make it fit his own schedule. But then there's the part where his family has opinions on everything he wears and says and does - or should do - which they feel they have a perfect right to express. And while P.K. doesn't mind it all the time - that's just how they are; hell, that's just how he is, too - sometimes he wants to work out and skate and hang with his guys without anyone trying to set him up, telling him to 'think about his future', start considering his options. 

At least they're not suggesting that a long term relationship would be just the thing to settle him down or anything like that; they do know that P.K.'s got it pretty together - and that the only future he wants to think about right now is the one that involves hockey.

He's maybe been spending more time in his room than usual, though. Which feels a little moody teenager - except he's not moody, just trying to stake out his own space. So whatever. Malcolm and Jordan can chirp him all they want over jerking it like he's just discovered his dick; he's at least got a room to himself to do it in.

Not that he's actually doing it any more than usual, no matter what thoughts of Pricey might be doing for him sometimes, not between training and getting to hook up with actual people in the flesh.

Mostly he's been watching movies on his laptop, writing endless bullshitting emails to his guys - and ignoring Farmers Only notifications when they hit his inbox. And fuck his Bulls guys for using his actual email address to set up the account - which he tells them in detail and at length whenever he gets reminded by yet another Farmers Only email. He hooks up plenty right there in the GTO, no going looking for 'em out in farm country - or electronic assistance - necessary. But he still hasn't deleted the account or gotten around to setting up an inbox filter to screen out the fucking cheesy 'flirts' that let him know another 'cowboy' or 'cowgirl' liked his totally fake profile enough to try one of the site's dumb canned lines. 

The flirts have only ever amounted to a trickle; nobody's been persistent enough to use the personalized message system in the face of his complete lack of response; and figuring out the site has always seemed like way too much effort.

And, hell, it's not like P.K. hasn't used a line or two of his own in his time - or they can know beforehand that trying it out on him isn't going to get them anywhere, not when they can't sell them to him in canned text the way they could in person. Or even in text with more context. P.K.'s a past master of flirting via texts, if he does say so himself. 

The point is that he's just read, laughed at and deleted the day's crop of flirts when an actual Farmers Only message pops up. He's checking his email after dinner, waiting for it to be late enough to go out - and hoping somebody will have added something to any of his ongoing email threads while he was training with Chance. But it's been a slow bullshitting day and there isn't anything more interesting going down, so he clicks.

Who knows? There might be one interesting 'cowboy' out there.

When the message opens, the first thing he sees is, of course, the greeting, _Hey, there, cowboy_. It should sound dumb, but instead, P.K. can practically see the air-quotes around the cowboy, like the guy writing to him's sarcasm's so strong it can transcend the written word. Like maybe he thinks the 'cowboy' screenname system is as dumb as P.K. does. 

And when the guy continues _The whole dating site thing wasn't my idea - my sister thinks meeting somebody would be good for me, but what do sisters know?_ , well, if P.K. hadn't already been intrigued, that would've gotten him there. He doesn't know how old this dude is, but given how P.K.'s only 20 and his sisters are already joining in on the campaign to get him to consider his future in a looking for somebody to settle down with way. Well, he can relate.

Still, that doesn't explain why the dude has decided to message P.K. - or, well, Karl, as his clever teammates had decided to put down when they were filling out his profile - but it turns out that just requires getting to the next paragraph.

_I wasn't planning on writing to anybody - my summer was going just fine, thanks - but I don't know if you've noticed, but this site's goddamn WHITE. I know first-hand that there're First Nations guys in rodeo and out there ranching and working the land. And I guess there must be black guys, too, since there's you. But I hadn't even noticed that I wasn't seeing anything but white guys until I got to your profile. And, hell, I probably still wouldn't have said anything if I hadn't noticed you were a Habs fan..._

There's more, after that, but even after he reads to the end, P.K. keeps coming back to that paragraph. Because, well, the guy, Roy, got one thing right, anyway: P.K.'s absolutely as much of a Habs fan as his profile makes him out to be. But he's not actually a data point in the set of black guys in farming-adjacent occupations - not even if ice counted as a thing you could farm - which Roy seemed just as excited about. 

It feels like he'd be letting Roy down if he came clean about it, though, even though it's probably just as shitty to keep on pretending and leading him on - particularly since he's not just a Habs FAN. Whatever he writes back had better be GOOD.

***

July 15, 2009

Carey's not sure what he was expecting out of an answer to his message, or even that he was definitely expecting to get one - he's ignored plenty of messages from other users of the site, himself, after all - but when he checks his email again his first full day in Calgary, between doing his drylands and putting in his hours on the ice, there's one waiting for him. He's tipped back in his chair, in an as out of the way corner of the facility as he could find, drinking a protein shake - and he swallows around an involuntary smile at the thought that Karl apparently found something in what he wrote compelling enough to prompt a response. Even if it may just be to tell him to chill out. But what he's received proves it isn't that in the first sentence, starting off with, 

_Sisters, man - now that mine have started having kids, they seem to think EVERYBODY needs to be doing it. I don't know why; I mean, they're cute, but that's a lot of shit to clean up - and cleaning up after just me's a lot some days. But they're not the ones who thought it would be a great idea to get me an account, at least - those would be my supposed 'friends'. Who clearly have too much time on their hands if they had some to spare for this kind of nonsense… particularly at that time of the season..._ , 

And then, just as Carey's snorting a laugh at the thought of Karl's farmer friends playing hooky from planting - or whatever other farm chores they were supposed to be completing - to huddle around a computer creating an account for him, Karl continues on to provide a thoughtful answer to Carey's unexpectedly impassioned comments on the overall whiteness of Farmers Only, 

_You said you probably wouldn't have written to me if you hadn't seen that I was a Habs fan - and I don't know if that means you played hockey when you were a kid or not. But if you did, I bet you remember that when you start out there're all kinds of kids playing, but the older you get, the more it's just white boys from nice, comfortably-off families who get to play seriously. Mostly they ARE pretty fucking good at hockey, but you have to wonder if some of those other kids who didn't keep at it could've been, too. Or what the kids who didn't even try could've done._

Hell, some of MY friends wouldn't have been able to keep going without some outside help.

I never really thought about it much at the time, but I remember when I was in Pee-Wee, sometimes when I took my gloves off during practice, there'd be a moment where I was almost shocked to see my skin colour. This is kind of like that...

Carey's never had that happen to him - in the middle of winter, he can get just as pale as a lot of the white boys he plays with. But he knows exactly what Karl means about kids dropping out as they got older, remembers being the only kid from Anahim Lake to play seriously, while the others did rodeo or got jobs or played lacrosse. Because organized hockey cost too much and required too much travel and didn't matter enough.

Carey can't imagine having done anything else and doesn't plan to stop until he has to - though he is glad rodeo will have a place for him when he gets too old for pro hockey, even if he doesn't ever plan to make a career of it. And he wonders if Karl dreamed of going as far as Carey has, if he was one of the guys who had to stop playing seriously after Midget, or only made it to Junior B. But he can't ask without inviting questions about his own minor hockey career - and even a semi-fictionalized version of that would be too distinctive to offer Karl at this point.

He still wishes he could ask.

***

July 16, 2009

P.K.'d written back to Roy immediately on finishing reading his message, the words flowing from his fingers and onto the screen like he'd breathed them there. And then he'd gone out dancing with the guys, drunk a few beers, and made out with a girl with her hair in awesome braids. By the time he got home and went to bed, he'd forgotten about the message entirely.

He doesn't remember again until he gets out of the shower after his morning workout the next day and sprawls on his bed in nothing but a towel to check his email. He pauses for a moment before clicking, suddenly ambivalent about finding out what Roy thought of his response The first couple sentences make him laugh, though, make him glad he decided to read it, 

_My sister would smack me if she knew I was saying this - hell, you can give me shit for saying it if you feel like it - but, whatever, it's true. And, more to the point, it's relevant. I'm lucky enough to be considered pretty conventionally tall, dark and handsome._

And then Roy goes serious on him, continuing, 

_I pass. White people mostly don't look at me and think 'different' unless I make a point of it. But I never forget. And I do make a point of reminding people. Because they've tried to forget us, to erase us, to assimilate us - but we're still here. I'm still here. And I may not be ready to be thinking about the kind of future that includes kids, but I want there to be a next generation to still be here. And be proud of who they are. Because I'm proud of who I am, of what I've accomplished, of being able to say 'a First Nations kid did that'._

And I'm not even close to done.

And P.K. knows that feeling - it's why he went to Twist this summer. Because he's ready for it to be his time. He kicked ass at development camp - and plans to take rookie camp and Habs training camp by storm, to make the line-up or at least be one of the last D-men to get cut and sent down to the Bulldogs. Yeah, he's proud of getting drafted second round, of being the black kid from a not-so-great part of Toronto who did that - but as Roy says, he's not done, not hardly. He's got more odds to beat.

After he finishes reading about how Roy grew up so far out in the country that the closest indoor rink was hours away, so he learned to skate on the frozen over surfaces of nearby creeks and lakes.

***

July 19, 2009

Carey almost forgets to check his email before bed. He's trying to make an early night of it after a weekend involving maybe a little too much fun and a little too little rest. But his laptop is sitting on the bedside table and when he starts getting into bed he nearly bumps into it - and that jars loose the thought that if he does check his email there might be a reply from Karl. He gets things powered up after he settles himself against the headboard - and when he brings up his inbox, the hoped-for reply is there, dated the day before. Carey clicks and starts reading, 

_Jeez, believe all your own press, why don'tcha? I guess you think you're gonna be the First Nations Roy Rogers. Though isn't he dead? And that would actually be pretty cool. Whatever. What's your event, rodeo boy? Gotta know what exactly you're planning to go far in. I've got jokes to make._

For real, though, you're not the only one with his eyes on a prize. I may be just starting out, but I've got plans. And they don't include settling for second best. My papa sure didn't raise no quitters. And he's from the Islands.

There's more in that vein, talking about who the immigrants are these days - and how being an immigrant has changed since everyone but Carey's First Nations folks was one. How Karl was luckier than a lot of his peers, lucky to have parents who could give him organized sports and a good education, give him opportunities. He closes with a story about his dad taking him skating outdoors in the middle of night when he was really little, bundled up fat and happy in his snowsuit. It leaves Carey with a hell of a lot to respond to, starting with the things Karl is just plain wrong about.

It's fun - but boy does he not have the brains to write anything back right away; that'll have to go on tomorrow's to-do list. Because he's got plenty to say in reply.

***

July 21, 2009

What P.K. gets back - and reads after he wakes up from his post-training nap - is obviously, from the first sentence, _Well, no, I don't want to be the First Nations ROY Rogers, actually, since he just played cowboys in the movies - and I definitely want to be one of the guys getting out there and actually doing shit_ , a bit of a rant about how wrong he is to think Roy would want to model his life after that particular namesake. P.K.'s a fan - because honestly? He mentioned Roy Rogers mainly because of the name and how Roy was one of the few things that came quickly to mind on the subject of cowboys. And mentioning Carey Price wouldn't have been a useful option under the circumstances. Even if he is pretty loud and open about his enjoyment of cowboy type things. The message continues:

_Aiming to be the Canadian WILL Rogers, on the other hand, wouldn't be a bad plan. That was one Cherokee who went places - and not just as a cowboy. Though I don't actually want to be as famous as he was, since it would be a hell of a lot more of a pain now than it was back then, what with the paparazzi and all that shit. But, hell, people don't get famous for being cowboys these days, anyway, so I'm probably safe on that count._

I mean, obviously, as I've mentioned previously, I still have things I want to achieve, goals I want to reach - and reaching some of them would definitely get me more attention than I tend to get these days, but not the 'the whole world knows who I am' type. Mostly just Canada. And if dealing with all of Canada knowing my name is the price of success, well, I think I'll survive. As long as they don't start throwing things at me.

Which they might well do, since he liked people a hell of a lot more than I ever will.

P.K. snorts - fans throwing things onto the ice is endemic to hockey. Hats for hatties are the best case scenario, but Detroit have their octopi and disgruntled fans of losing teams everywhere throw jerseys and bottles and anything else that comes to hand. Though he remembers one of his English teachers talking about how Shakespeare was originally performed, with men playing the female characters for audiences inclined to show their displeasure by pelting the actors with rotten produce, which makes even playing for Habs fans seem tame by comparison. That Roy doesn't say what he's hoping to do that might make him that kind of target rouses P.K.'s curiosity - maybe something to do with politics, though? And P.K. can understand being cagey about that.

Hell, he can understand being cagey, in general, since he's hiding most of his life from Roy - that doesn't mean he won't prod, but he can decide how much to after he's read the rest of Roy's message, which continues on,

_As for what my events are, well, I'm mostly a roper these days - for safety reasons. I mean, obviously I can ride, too, but I leave the bulls and broncos to guys who can better afford to get injured. Roping's enough excitement all on its own, anyway, especially if you do the two-man event like I do and have to coordinate tying up both ends of a cow. If you've never gotten up close and personal, that's a whole lot of twisting, flailing future steak..._

There's more, about what exactly goes into roping a cow in the two man event and how Roy wants to see about doing more rodeos next season than he did this year. And also what you have to be careful about to make sure you don't injure the animal you're trying to tie up in the process of doing so. P.K. gets stuck on the steak part, though, gets a text off to Johnny asking whether he has dinner plans - and, if not, whether he wants to go get steaks as big as their heads; P.K.'s stomach has just woken up and started making noises like it could eat an entire cow.

It's wrong - but there's no way to convince it of that but start with a fraction thereof and eat until he's just full, i.e. long before anything resembling even a side of beef has been consumed.

***

July 23, 2009

Finding time to check his email around his training gets more and more difficult the deeper into the Calgary portion of his summer Carey gets. This time, he's lying in bed, in the Ellerbys' guest room, feeling lame for going to bed this early, even if it is a Thursday. Rationally, he knows that it'll get better - that he'll stop feeling quite so tired at the end of the day - once he gets his on-ice fitness back and stopping pucks stops feeling like something he has to think about every time he does it. For the moment, though, while he's working through the transition, he gets to feel like shit, even after a massage and an ice bath. So early to bed it is, after he sees whether there's anything in his inbox worth reading. 

Messages from Karl have turned into automatic 'read immediately's, assuming he has the time - which he would not have predicted when he sent that first impulsive message - so he knows what his bedtime reading will be as soon as he sees that there's a new one buried among an NHLPA newsletter and a dozen YouTube notifications and the other usual crap that turns up in his inbox on the regular. It begins,

_I've never had much to do with horses - I prefer to live the kind of life where machines do my bidding, thank you very much - but even I know that being careful around broncos is a smart idea. And I know from personal experience just how bad bulls can take you down._

Also, a guy's gotta ask: do your rope skills extend to other areas than rodeo?

And, yeah, Carey was aware that you didn't need to know anything about horses to be a farmer these days, that the business has become as mechanized as every other part of modern life, but Karl's offhand confession still makes him want to say things like 'well, you could get to know mine' and 'how have you possibly survived' (even if that last possibly makes him sound like a horse-crazy pre-teen). But even more, he wants to hear the story behind the equally offhand bulls comment. Because there has to be one. He doesn't get to write back and ask until he reads on to the end, though - not that that's anything like a hardship, even with Karl insinuating things about ropes.

So far, he's proved interesting no matter the subject he's discussing - and Carey smiles when he sees that the next bit is commentary on Carey's preferred Rogers,

_If you'd asked me prior to this week, I woulda said my favorite Rogers was the one on my TV when I was little - he really made you believe he wanted to be your friend, y'know? But Will Rogers sounds like a rock-star, so I do believe I can give your choice of role model my stamp of approval, anyway. Mine's a little closer to home: my dad, though I just hope to be as good and hard-working a man as he is, rather than following exactly in his foot-steps. He does amazing work in my hometown, stuff that he'll be remembered for for years to come, but my dreams require leaving to fulfill - though I definitely wouldn't have been in a position to do that without his support and guidance. And his willingness to get me out of bed in the middle of the night to do work._

And Carey can get behind that sentiment, as well - the commitment his dad made to his hockey and to spending time with him, flying him to practice and games in Williams Lake and back, back before he went off to Juniors? That's the kind of thing he wants any kids he might have someday to know he would do for them. Because you don't realize, when you're a kid, just how much of a commitment it takes to raise a professional hockey player - or to take any other sport or hobby that level of seriously - even when you don't live somewhere as remote as Anahim Lake, and his parents gave him that, took his passion seriously. 

And so, it seems, did Karl's.

Now he's a starting goalie with an Original Six NHL team - and Karl's apparently left home to follow his dreams, as well, which Carey has to admit to being a bit curious about. Though Karl probably would've said up-front if he wanted to talk about the specifics of them. Unless he thinks Carey - or, well, Roy - would think whatever it is was boring?

***

July 24, 2009

Checking his email in the evening, between days of training and evenings with his boys, is pretty much routine at this point. This time P.K. does it sitting on his bed, wearing nothing but boxers, laptop resting on his thighs. His everything feels tired, from his hair to his skin, and right on down through his muscles to his bones; Chance's workouts take everything he has to give. Fortunately, his email contains a bit of relief from the tired, a message from Roy that's hopefully him telling P.K. more interesting shit about Will Rogers. It is - and it's just as great as P.K. was hoping it would be until he hits the one line that wipes out everything that came before it once he's read it,

_What'd you ever do to a bull._

Which, well, fuck. P.K. wasn't thinking about what story he was going to have to tell Roy if he wanted to know what P.K. meant by that. He was just thinking about his Bulls, his team, getting into fights when opposing players did shit that made them mad enough to lose it. Also, a little bit about them slaughtering the defense with their goal-scoring. And now he's got to say something back that makes it sounds like they're animals.

What even is his life?

That's a question he's going to have to answer later, though, because right then he has an appointment with a drink and a relatively early night. So he can get up early again in the morning and do it all over again. Rookie camp keeps getting closer and closer - and P.K. doesn't want to be that guy, the one who's been slacking off and needs time to get up to camp speed, not if he can come in cruising.

So, pants, shirt, shoes, wallet, phone - and then bus, bar, drink, bus, bed.

***

July 25, 2009

Carey's taking a break from checking and cleaning his gear - it's a Saturday afternoon and he's not about to spend all of it on chores - when he gets the chance to read the message he's been waiting on ever since he sent off the one asking about Karl's bull story. He really wants to know what Karl was doing to have that kind of up close and personal encounter. He's figuring on it being pretty spectacular - or maybe down to dumb luck - since Karl's seemed like a guy with a sensible head on his shoulders so far and most people don't get run down by bulls without doing something dumb, not unless they do rodeo. And, well, see: doing something dumb. But after all that, Karl opens with,

_Sorry to disappoint, but I probably shouldn't have described it as first-hand experience. Or, well, not first-hand, first-hand, anyway. I've never had a bull come charging at me, personally, because, well, I have more sense than to do anything that would set a bull charging. I've just been there a couple-few times to witness them having metaphorical red flags waved in front of them and deciding enough was enough and they were going to react as, well, bulls tend to do. Dumb thing to do, in my opinion, getting a bull mad on purpose - and let's just note here that bullfighters are crazy brave (and in yet another profession that's definitely not for me) - or even doing anything you could reasonably expect would make it mad. The guys doing the red flag waving have all been pretty lucky, though, all things considered, since they haven't ever gotten gored, though some of them've definitely gotten the horns and come out the worse for it. And it's always a real sight to see, watching 'em getting mad enough to charge and then seeing them going off on whoever did the riling up._

As answers go, it isn't heavy on detail - and only involves Karl as a bystander - but it still manages to be entertaining in the way everything Karl writes tends to be. Karl has opinions - and a way of saying things that makes Carey want to know what he's going to say next. So he reads on,

_I generally try to stay out of the way when that happens. I may not exactly be a small guy, but when those guys get going, well, it definitely takes more than me to match them. And, I admit, I feel somewhat like if you're gonna be dumb enough to make a bull mad on purpose, well, if they decide to run you down then you're only getting what's coming to you. I might step in if things were REALLY getting out of hand, but not for your average dumbshit. They can save their own asses - or get help from someone at a higher pay grade. Who isn't me. Especially if they're gonna go around calling bulls' mamas names._

That last bit makes Carey laugh, because, yeah, he's never sure how much animals understand when it comes to actual words, but he's damn sure they get tone and he's only ever heard guys call people's mamas names in tones that would read loud and clear to a deaf guy - and no question about a bull. Carey doesn't talk shit about other guys' mothers - or sisters - because he's, y'know, a decent human being who thinks women aren't there just to be levers to prod their male relatives with. And he has a mother and sister, himself.

He's had guys try and use it against him, plenty, though - and mostly laughed it off because /he/ knows more than he wants to about Kayla's mean right hook.

There's more after Karl's ruminations on the subject of charging bulls - a story about something dumb one of his brothers did, the most recent suggestions in the 'girls Karl might be interested in' sweeps, and three whole paragraphs devoted to fresh fruit and why it's the best part of summer. Carey's long since returned to gear maintenance when he realizes Karl never said anything one way or the other about talking about his ambitions, which seems particularly weird considering how much he had to say about fruit. Unless that's a subtle hint and Karl has ambitions towards orchardry or some other type of fruit farming?

But that doesn't seem like the right answer, not from what he knows of Karl - it seems like he'd acknowledge it, maybe make a joke about how polite 'Roy' was to ask, not just pretend there'd never been a reason to ask in the first place - which leaves Carey unsure whether to mention it again or how, if so.

***

July 26, 2009

P.K. really does like Sundays. They're the one day he takes entirely off from training during the summer - it is, as his parents are happy to remind him, the day of rest, after all. This means getting to sleep in, start his day with an omelette filled with whatever combination of meats, cheeses and vegetables can be found in the fridge - and maybe even do something completely fun and lazy like watching a movie or going shopping. Plus, he can make checking his email a more leisurely affair than he does ordinarily. Which is why 11:30 AM finds him loading his inbox, sprawled across his bed in a pair of mesh shorts - and contemplating his movie collection. 

Seeing a reply from Roy puts all thoughts of movies out of his head, though - and gets him clicking and reading,

_Calling people's mamas names is pretty much the universal fight starter - and, as you probably know, there ain't nobody who'll put their fists up faster over it than a drunk country boy. Though it mostly doesn't work on me because I know my mom would laugh at the idea that she needed me to defend her honor. My sister, too._

Drunk, or losing, P.K. thinks, scratching at the night's growth of stubble. The OHL has more than its fair share of country boys easily goaded into stupid fights when the game's on the line. And he's done his share of the goading in his time. Though, like Roy, he tries to keep their mamas out of it; it's not their fault their kids have shit for brains. And poor impulse control.

Nobody can help being from Thunder Bay.

He gets his thoughts back on the email only to find Roy wanting to know things P.K.'s gonna have to bullshit his way through, saying, _But you've gotta have a better story about a bull than that if you're gonna make out like it's a thing. So, like, why was the guy calling the bull's mama names? What'd the bull do to him? Just be BULL-headed.._ And after that P.K. just groans because fuck that was a bad pun and apparently he's destined to only know cowboy types with similarly terrible senses of humour.

He's still gonna have to figure out how to tell a story about a hockey fight and make it sound like there was an actual animal and some outdoors involved, though - what even is his life; he should NOT have gone all in on this talking to a strange cowboy thing.

The thing is, though, that he's actually kind of enjoying Roy's stories about going out and kicking bovine ass at the rodeo - except for the bad puns, he's got a way with words - and just, having this completely different summer to P.K.'s. Not that P.K. can actually talk about what he's been up to most of the time - the average farmer probably doesn't have a summer routine of working out and going clubbing, but Roy doesn't seem to mind that P.K.'s conversation is mostly stories about the dumb things his friends do, complaining about his family and giving Roy shit about his own life.

He doesn't know what he'll do if Roy ever decides he wants to know more about Karl's fictional farming life than random stories about bulls and stuff.

But for now all P.K. needs to do is follow his segue on the subject of bull-headedness into a story about his cousin - apparently Roy is visiting some relatives - being extra stubborn about some minor detail of steak preparation that gets totally lost in Roy's descriptions of the dude's over-the-top defense of its correctness. He follows that up with a bit on what his cousins have been feeding him - and some argument with P.K.'s ranking of the best summer fruits from his last letter. And he closes with a mention of how much he misses his dogs, since he left them with his parents while he was traveling.

He hasn't figured out a way to spin a hockey fight to meet his storytelling needs by the time he gets to the end, but he IS feeling more like he can make it happen if he just gives it time, so he puts on _300_ on the theory that it MIGHT provide inspiration - and even if it doesn't he's just spent a productive couple hours staring at screen after screen of scantily-clad men.

That plus the mesh shorts means he's probably gonna want to jerk off by the end - but, hell, what better way to spend a lazy Sunday afternoon?

***

July 27, 2009

It's a new week of training, which means an increase in his ice time and more stretching before and after. But at least he's feeling more like pucks aren't alien creatures he doesn't have a hope of understanding or tracking. Which means his practice save percentage is looking a lot less dismal. And Carey's feeling better overall at the end of the day. A message from Karl is still a welcome distraction, though, particularly since it turns out to be the full-on bull story he requested, served up with the usual dose of Karl wit and bite,

_Jeez, keep your hair on. I'm not here just to keep you entertained. But since you've said you want details, you're gonna get details. Beginning with a question: you know the kind of guy who goes around just looking to start fights, like that's all he's here for?_

Well, one of those is the star of this story.

Right, so imagine this guy - kinda tall, kinda goony, maybe looks a little like a gorilla - who's hanging around with a few of his friends, like, around the edge of a field where a bull is chilling out, just minding his own business. So, these guys are leaning against the boards of the fence, shooting the shit, doing whatever - and this guy, the dumbshit gorilla, gets it in his head that he wants to get all up in the bull's business. He starts walking across the field towards the bull - and the closer he gets the more shit he starts talking. He's saying stuff about the bull's mother, about how the bull wouldn't dare to charge him, not him - the bull's obviously too scared. And I'm seeing all this because I'm standing on the other side of the field, by the gate, making sure it stays shut tight.

For a while it looks like the bull's maybe just gonna ignore the guy - it's a pretty chill bull, as these things go, and it was looking the other direction when the guy started walking towards it. But eventually the guy says something in just the right tone of voice, or maybe just loud enough, and the bull turns around to find out what's disturbing his nice, quiet afternoon of standing around, smelling the flowers. He sees the gorilla guy - and I'm still not absolutely sure anything's gonna happen; pretty chill bull, remember? But the guy keeps getting closer. And closer. And closer, still. And he keeps talking this just completely ridiculous shit while the bull stares him down, like it's trying to decide whether this guy is worth doing something about.

And, like, just when I've decided that, nah, nothing's gonna happen - I can stand down - the bull practically leaps at the guy, knocking him over and taking off down the field. It's not so much charging, as, like, treating the guy as a speed-bump on the way to more interesting, less irritating things. But when the guy's out of the field and has been checked over, it turns out he's a bit bruised and his shirt's torn - and he's somehow gotten a blacked eye out of it - but he's totally gonna live.

And meanwhile the bull has gone back to his lazy day of smelling the flowers and eating the grass.

Yep, Carey thinks, Karl can tell a story when he wants to. And that is a story. Though Carey really wants to know why Karl didn't try and distract the bull before the guy could piss it off enough to get it charging. Well, aside from the dumbshit clause. And maybe, like, who let the guy near any bulls in the first place. Since he was clearly an asshat of the first degree. Still, he's glad he made a point of asking for it.

Though Karl didn't end his message with the bull's return to life untormented by idiots. The story leads to a discussion of Karl's favorite ways to eat steak - and another mention of his dad, this time in praise of his grilling prowess, particularly with chicken. And he closes it out by laughing at himself for almost getting walked in on by his dad the day before, when his parents got home from church unexpectedly early, with a sideline in his less favorite parts of living at home during the summer.

That reminder that Karl is only living at home during the summer shakes something loose in his brain, makes him think that the obvious answer, considering Karl's age, is that he's currently getting a degree somewhere - and Carey can ask where.

***

July 28, 2009

Tuesdays are heavy core work days, which, when combined with the amount of skating P.K. did that afternoon, mean that he ends the day having to be really careful about how he sits if he doesn't want to set off a chorus of aching muscles. But he's managed to get himself arranged on his bed - just so - with a couple ice packs and a Gatorade, so his evening's beginning to look up. And the message from Roy in his inbox promises as much relief as the ice packs.

_So, a story for a story - no bull, at least not in a starring role, though I was at this thing called Bull-o-Rama, which is an evening of wall-to-wall bullriding, when I saw it happen. I wasn't riding - even an insane one-off like that wouldn't tempt me - but they always need support staff and I was happy to sign on for that. Meant I had a good view when the Coppertown Clown did his act between rounds, too._

Dunno whether you've heard of him, though I'm gonna guess not, since you're not a rodeo guy - but his schtick is that he trains rescue dogs to do circus tricks: jumping through hoops, walking on their hind legs, that kind of thing. So you might call this an actual shaggy dog story, except for how it's completely true. And the dogs get their fur trimmed to look like lions. And they're really well-trained - including the one whose schtick includes appearing to fail to notice Bert (the Coppertown Clown) wants it to do tricks. When, in fact, the joke is that most of the things Bert's asking for would be impossible for the dog to do, even if it were supposed to be trying. 

That's not actually the story I was trying to tell you, though, so, carrying on, let me just ask: ever heard of barrel racing? If not, it's a women's rodeo event in which each rider has 60 seconds to guide her horse through a set of three barrels, running the course in a cloverleaf pattern. Hence the name. What Bert's done is trained one of his bigger dogs to run the barrels same as a horse would - and in nearly as short a time, too. It's damned impressive to watch, seeing the dog running flat out at the first barrel, taking the turn tight as you could wish, and racing on to do the same with the second and third ones. Looking damned happy to do it, too. 

But one thing Bert apparently hasn't thought of is having one of the smaller dogs ride the bigger dog, like the knight dude in Labyrinth does. Though I bet he could if he wanted to, if he got a small enough dog for it. And he had a special saddle made. I know I'd watch a dog-riding-dog barrel racing team - and I'm probably not the only one.

P.K. can totally picture it, a little dog sitting in some sort of box on the bigger dog's back, digging its claws in while the bigger dog races the clock. He'd watch it, too. Hell, if they're counting _Labyrinth_ , it was a treasured part of his childhood. And, yeah, maybe Roy didn't go as big as P.K. did in his story-telling, but HE wasn't trying to get P.K. to shut up about the subject at hand. Plus, P.K.'s noticed he tends to keep his stories simple, in general.

Anyway, he makes up for it by talking about other rodeo entertainment he's seen and going into more detail about what working the Bull-O-Rama had been like. And none of it's any more dramatically recounted than the story about the trained dogs had been, but the sharp observations Roy makes are well worth the trade. Because he notices things P.K. doesn't think he ever would do, himself - and then writes about them in a way that makes it easy for him to picture them.

Near the end of the message he starts giving P.K. shit for almost getting walked in on, saying stuff about how, if they were moaning that loud in the porn that Karl couldn't hear people entering the house, he didn't see how that could possibly have been turning him on enough for there to be anything to be embarrassed about. It's nothing P.K.'s not used to getting from other sources, so he's not bothered, not until the chirping somehow segues into Roy asking about the life he leads when he's not living with his parents over the summer, says,

_Where do you spend the rest of the year? Got any bad roommate/housemate stories to go with all your complaints about your family? Joking - mostly - but what're you going to have to bitch about when summer's over and your parents aren't breathing down your neck?_

And, well, P.K. thinks he can dodge this one, too, with some carefully worded b.s. that implies school and conceals hockey. And makes it clear that he doesn't want to talk about it. Though 'student' is at least less problematic for Roy to be assuming than 'pro hockey player', and the bull incident and the challenge of coming up with a story that he felt confident sending to Roy, well, that had done it for him, in a weird way that nothing even resembling lying ever has. It feels like...being involved in a prank war, or a chirping war of attrition.

Which, it seems to him, is the opposite of what being on a dating site is supposed to make him feel - though it IS part of what keeps him writing back, just like he will once the aches and pains ease up enough to give him his brain back today.

***

July 30, 2009

Another Thursday, another week almost over. And next week it'll be August. Camp's creeping ever closer and Carey's off-season training's been getting more and more intense, as a result - but he's still been making time to read and respond to Karl's messages, even if that means doing it while propping his eyelids open with toothpicks. After all, they don't have the kind of negative impact on his productivity drinking too much does, but still break up his routine a bit. Even when, Carey thinks, when he sees how Karl starts out his next message, he should've been able to see this one coming, because, well,

_Dog-ride-dog instead of dog-eat-dog - I like it. But if we're discussing Labyrinth, I gotta ask the obvious question: how formative was David Bowie's crotch, live and in technicolor, in terms of your sexuality? 'Cos I gotta say that once I hit twelve, thirteen, watching that movie with my little brothers got a lot less comfortable. And if my parents were around? No way._

I'm not the kind of guy who's totally grossed out by the idea that his parents have had sex - they had to have had it a bunch in order to produce me and all my sisters and brothers, to be honest, and they've always been affectionate with each other around us - but there's just something super uncomfortable about watching something sexy while they're in the room. My dad giving me his really thorough sex talk was bad enough that I haven't bothered to mention the whole liking guys as well as girls thing. Though that at least means that I'm not being match-made with all the available sons of friends of the family, etc., AS WELL as all the available daughters.

Which makes putting off that conversation until I've got an actual reason - being outed, dating somebody long-term rather than just hooking up - seem like a GREAT idea.

Carey's definitely got SOME of those memories in common with Karl, though not the terrifyingly detailed sex talk. He got off lucky on that one, what with the whole growing up out in the middle of nowhere and being around animals from way before he was old enough to understand what sex was. By the time it became relevant to his own life, he'd seen enough animals giving birth and exhibiting sexual behavior that his dad had only had to clear up a few points about how things differed for humans. And anything he'd wanted to know after that, he'd looked up in a book or on the internet.

Karl spends a few paragraphs after that detailing exactly how sore a trip to the gym that week had left him, explaining the very specific way he'd had to sit for the rest of the day if he didn't want to set off a chain reaction of pain - and laughing at himself for overdoing it. And for still getting together with his friends that evening, despite the pain. Carey's only recently gotten past the point where adding on-ice training to his conditioning leaves him feeling like a limp noodle fit for nothing but sleeping at the end of the day, so he already totally sympathizes - and then he reads on and sees that Karl has answered his question from the last letter,

_I took a bunch of gen-eds at my local provincial uni last year - and next year I'm hoping to be in Montreal, but I still don't know if that's actually going to happen and there's only so much that talking about it can help with. Either I'll get offered a spot or I won't. So I mostly prefer to worry about other things and ignore the elephant in the room until it either fades away or vanishes in an explosion of confetti and champagne. I mean, there may come a point where I can do something more than prepare in case it does happen, but that point is not now. And, in the end, no matter how much I do prepare, the decision still won't be up to me._

I don't know if you spent your entire childhood wanting, wishing, working for one thing, but this is mine - and I get reminded of that pretty much all the time in all the other parts of my life.

Those paragraphs hit Carey hard, reminding him all too clearly of what it had been like to be a prospect in the Canadiens' system, working his ass off in hopes that his showing in the Dub and at World Juniors would lead to a professional career. And knowing that all he could do was work his hardest and hope. He hadn't let it twist him up too much - he's never been one for worrying about things that he can't change - but he hadn't wanted to talk about it all the time, either.

Whatever might await Karl in Montreal - and if Carey had to guess, he'd say some program at McGill - well, Carey can respect not wanting to talk it to death, particularly with somebody who is still a relative stranger.

Besides, he has to keep himself from loading Karl down with advice about things to see and do in Montreal somehow, since a cowboy from BC coming out with all the stuff he could say about the city without even trying? Yeah, that would require more explanation than he has any interest in giving. So it's just as well that Karl wants his plans for the fall to be off-limits. It'll hopefully save Carey from himself.

Which also means not replying to Karl's message when Carey already feels like face-planting into his laptop keyboard, so: laptop out of the bed and Carey into it.

***

August 2, 2009

The following Sunday finds P.K. getting his lazily lounging on his bed with his laptop on again - though he won't get to spend the entire day there, since he has a shopping date with Johnny later. Going first overall means Johnny needs to step up his shirt and tie game - and P.K. intends to steer him RIGHT. Just then, though, P.K.'s thinking about actually planning his jerk-off session this time, so he'll DEFINITELY be done when his family gets back from church. But that's still for after reading whatever Roy had to say in response to P.K. complaining about his training-related aches and pains,

_Montreal? Why would I want to talk about Montreal?_

Which, yeah, P.K.'s not gonna fight the grin, because Roy throwing down and acknowledging that Karl has spoken and There Is Nothing To Discuss. Officially. And doing it in Roy's usual deadpan style? That's the kind of thing P.K. appreciates in a friend. Particularly when they can turn on a dime to get serious, as Roy does,

_Parents, on the other hand, well, I haven't told mine, either - though I don't think they'd be particularly upset to find out I'm more into guys than girls. It wouldn't cause me problems in rodeo, my sister already knows - obviously, since she set up my profile on this account - and they've got her to maybe give 'em grandkids if I don't. And anyway, they're good people who expect me to work hard, but mostly just want me to be happy._

Still, I'm taking a page out of your playbook with the whole not telling them until there's something to tell plan - it's not really anybody's business but mine until then.

Though who knows? They might've guessed already, since my sister wore out at least one tape of Labyrinth when we were kids. And I definitely didn't object to watching it as much as I could have. On the other hand, it's not like everybody didn't go around reciting that whole 'You remind of the babe/What babe?' thing.

And THAT starts P.K. off automatically chanting, "The babe with the power. What power? The power of voo-doo. Who do? You do. WHAT?...Remind me of the babe." He's pretending to roll one of the Goblin King's spheres around between his hands by the end of the first run through, because, well, it's just what you do. That and recite the thing over and over again until you get tired of it. Or somebody tries to smother you for being a fucking annoying asshole.

P.K. has more than a little experience with that end of things.

Right now, though, he's alone in his room - alone in the house, even - and he can recite it until he's made HIMSELF sick of it. So he keeps saying it half under his breath while he reads the rest of what Roy wrote. Mostly it's a response to his bit about the world of hurt he'd been in when he was writing last, part giving him shit for being dumb about exercise safety and part commiserating about using muscles you haven't made work that way in a while - and then having to lie around afterwards with ice-packs in ridiculous places.

Which is actually kind of a great image, even if he doesn't know what Roy looks beyond tall and kinda built.

***

August 5, 2009

It turns out that the first Thursday in August doesn't feel particularly different from the last Thursday in July, except for how he's maybe a little less tired at the end of it despite his slightly tougher training regimen. Not enough less tired that his plan isn't to check his email and then crawl under the covers and sleep until his alarm goes off, but still, a little. Just enough that he doesn't have to prop his eyelids open while he reads what Karl has written, starting with,

_You earwormed me with that, you dick. Not that I mind so much on my own behalf, but I kept breaking out in it the entire rest of the day - and the friend I was hanging out with tried to gag me over it. So, y'know, you suck. And I'm totally going to get you back when you least expect it._

(Pshhh, whatever, I don't have to keep my secret plans secret - that's where the 'when you least expect it' part comes in.)

On the other hand, he tried to gag me with a tie - and the store we were in made him buy it - and it's a fucking fugly tie. So I think I maybe, possibly win? Except for how he's going to tell people that I'm the reason he owns it. And they'll assume I approve. Which, I hope you can see, would be complete bullshit.

So, yeah, totally getting you back, like a ninja - an internet ninja.

Carey's pretty sure that Karl won't be able to inflict anything on him through a message worse than a reciprocal earworm. Or maybe a link to some terrible video or amateur porn. Or rick-rolling. He only ever gets a chance to read and reply in the comfort and privacy of his guest bedroom these days, so it's not like he'd be discovering which option Karl had chosen out in public. And even if it was TERRIBLE and he ended up making enough noise to draw the Ellerbys' attention, well, he'd figure out something to tell them.

Like, he dropped something on his foot, or, that was him laughing - and, no, he can't explain what was so funny, it just was.

_I'm a bit surprised my parents DON'T seem to know, to be honest. I may not have ever brought a guy home to meet them - or even mentioned being interested in them - but I'm definitely not subtle about being pretty equal opportunity when it comes to appreciating people's...charms. Of course, if they did know and just hadn't said anything, I guess they could be assuming that my interest is more theoretical than practical._

Which would be a completely incorrect assumption, but, as previously discussed, sex is not something I talk about with them, so how would they know?

On the other hand, I do at least have evidence that they support sexual diversity tolerance efforts, like the ones our local schools have made, so. Eventually.

Sometimes Carey thinks about asking his parents these kinds of things. But they're not the kind of family that spends a lot of time talking about their feelings. Carey wouldn't know where to begin. And mostly it seems like it would just be wasting a lot of words and effort to probably just get confirmation of things he already suspected.

What would be the point, when he doesn't even manage to have sex with guys that often - and he's still not looking to date anybody? 

***

August 6-September 20, 2009

Training continues - for Carey in Calgary and for P.K. back in Toronto. The further into August they get, the less time they have for anything but that. But messages still make their way back and forth between 'Karl' and 'Roy', full of complaints about aches and pains - and the random thoughts that fill their lives.

In the middle of all this, Carey's birthday comes and goes, leaving him 21. The Ellerbys plan a surprise party for him, get his parents and Kayla to come up to Calgary for it. A bunch of his friends come, too - and then drag him out after the main party with all the relatives is over. After he finds out about the party by accident, he has a fantastic time being a pain in the ass about it, almost 'accidentally' skipping it. And walking in in the middle of preparations on the regular. Because fucking with people is fun.

And then, somehow, suddenly, it's September. With it comes rookie camp - which P.K. feels like he's really ready for when he shows up, moreso than he ever has been before. And that still feels true by the end of it. Training camp's familiar, too - this is his third year attending part of it - and feels good. But it doesn't feel GREAT. He plays well, but not so much better than the rest of the crowd of D-men vying for the same spots as to leave him confident that he won't be sent down. He's too young, too untried - and while his instincts on the ice are mostly solid, they still sometimes lead him astray, getting him zigging when he should be zagging. But people are saying good things about him, so he keeps hoping.

 

***

September 21, 2009

When Coach calls him into his office to tell P.K. he's being cut, P.K. can't actually claim to be surprised. Disappointed, sure, but not surprised. He knows he's spent camp playing well - had hoped that might translate into getting to start the season in Montreal - but there's a logjam of more senior prospects and veteran players with contracts the team needs to justify between him and a roster spot.

And he can't actually claim to have played enough better than any of them to justify management taking that gamble.

Sitting in one of the hard chairs across from Coach's desk, P.K. says all the right things, _I appreciate the opportunity_ and _of course I'll use this season down in Hamilton to develop my game to the utmost of my ability_ and _I understand_. And then he shakes Coach's hand and goes to say goodbye to the guys.

Or, well, to Pricey, anyway - P.K. is not at all ashamed to admit that Pricey's his favorite person in camp and the one he's going to miss the most down in Hamilton.

Afterwards, P.K. goes back to the hotel to pack - and get ready to be shipped off to Hamilton, to join the Bulldogs in spending a week in Scotland, playing in the Gardiner Cup. It'll be his second time leaving North America and while he can't find it in himself to be excited about it yet - he hasn't quite managed to get past the part where he didn't crack the Habs roster - he knows he will be eventually. One of the best parts of playing hockey - aside from, well, /the hockey/ - is getting to see places he never would've otherwise.

He definitely has dreams of playing for Canada at the Olympics somewhere cool - but so far unspecified. Wherever they're going to be in 2018, or maybe even 2014. Vancouver's obviously out, though that would be the most amazing. Like, he can't even imagine: playing hockey for your country, in the Olympics, /on home soil/.

Yeahhhhh.

But concentrating on that's getting ahead of himself. First, he's got to make his mark in the AHL with the Bulldogs - and then use that display of skill to earn himself the Habs roster spot he has every intention of claiming sooner rather than later. And once he's established himself in the NHL enough to make his mark there, too, well. Then maybe the Canadian men's team will come calling again. And none of that will happen if he doesn't spend the entire season concentrating on hockey.

No distractions...no feeling conflicted about lying to some cowboy he's never met - never gonna meet, if he's brutally realistic about the whole thing - who doesn't deserve to be lied to.

He hasn't packed his laptop, yet, so it's a matter of moments to log in and bring up a new message. Then he sits, fingers hovering over the keys, trying to figure out how to put it to Roy. It's almost poetic how this might be one of the only situations ever where /it's not you; it's me/ is true and not just a coward's way out of a situation they don't want to talk about. But he's still gotta come up with something better than that to write.

Roy wouldn't know he wasn't just being a dick, even if he said he wasn't; EVERYBODY says that.

What he writes in the end is a compromise. He doesn't feel like he can explain what's actually going on; he's not ready to completely out himself like that. It's definitely not perfect, a bit misleading about his intentions, but he can't quite bring himself to completely slam the door on Roy, to not keep his options open just a little. He's still not looking for a boyfriend - or girlfriend - but he might, eventually, come to a place where he felt comfortable telling Roy the truth and seeing if he still wanted to be friends. And not just because P.K. plays professional hockey. So he tells Roy,

_There's some stuff I need to concentrate on right now and writing to you - or even receiving messages from you (I'd just be tempted to write back) - would distract me from it. I can't afford that kind of distraction. So while I'm not disappearing completely or deleting my account or anything, I think I need to lock things down for the moment. If you could just stop writing to me, I'd really appreciate it._

Hate it, but appreciate it (look at me, being too honest).

I don't know when - or even if - I might resurface, but you can know this: I've enjoyed reading and replying to everything you've ever written to me. And I really hate doing this, but it's not fair of me to ask you to wait around for something that might not even be possible. If you'd even want to.

You're probably glad to be rid of this pain in your ass.

Anyway, I guess that's it. So, goodbye - and good luck. And give those cows hell for me.

And that's that; he's just ended - or at least put on indefinite hold - one of the better friendships he's developed in a while.

When Carey gets back to his place after camp lets out for the day, he's still feeling bummed out about P.K. getting sent down. He's got plenty of other friends on the team, sure - a whole crowd of younger Habs he goes out for drinks and dinner and dancing with - but after running into P.K. in VanCity this summer and getting another, longer dose of him in camp he's been reminded of just how much he likes this guy, in particular, of all the Habs and Habs hopefuls. And how much he appreciates that P.K. never tries to be anything but himself.

It doesn't hurt that P.K.'s not hard on the eyes, but the way he just seems to get Carey is the big thing.

He's probably never actually gonna tell P.K. that - dude's plenty confident without people complimenting him all over the place - and, right now, Carey guesses that about all he can do is wish P.K. the best and hope he gets called up sooner rather than later. And, like, maybe reach out to him and encourage him to kick as much ass as possible. He can probably handle another occasional pen-pal during the season. If P.K. can even be bothered to write back with anything more substantial than links to whatever he's listening to at the moment.

Not that Carey objects to the music - he does just fine finding new stuff on his own, but P.K.'s got a talent for introducing him to things he loves but never would've looked into without that extra nudge; he's done it at least once per training camp the past three years.

He's been moving around his apartment while he thought, getting some leftovers out of the fridge to heat up, refilling the dogs' water and food dishes, settling at the table with a beer and his laptop and the pasta. Now, thinking about P.K., he gets some music on and fires up his email, ready to see about replying to Karl's latest message, Maybe he can get a little of what he's feeling about P.K. off his chest in response to Karl's musings about, _how great it was to see these guys I mostly haven't seen in a year. It's like I can just slip right back into place with them. Those are the best kinds of friends to have_.

And bitch a little about how sore he's today's practice left him feeling, even after a massage and some time in the tub (he's maybe privately admitting he should've trained a little more seriously over the summer than he did).

By the time he hits send on his latest reply to Karl, he's feeling a bit better for having just spent a couple thousand words complaining about those aches and pains he's currently sporting as a result of training camp - carefully coded to sound like they came from rodeo-related activities, of course - and talking about how much it sucks that P.K.'s not going to start the season the Habs this time. He's definitely not expecting a message from Karl to pop up in his inbox almost immediately - or for it to essentially be a Dear John letter. They haven't even been doing anything that could realistically be described as 'being involved'. 

Plus, he was kinda looking forward to seeing just how Karl planned to give him shit for being an old man this time, too.

The thing is, when he stops to think about it for a second, after he's read Karl's message over two or three times, he's not sure he entirely believes Karl about his reasons for cutting communications. Everything he's seen of the guy so far suggests he's a lot more outgoing than Carey, gets a lot more energy from interacting with people than Carey does. And the stuff he was saying about their messages being a distraction, well, that sounds like something Carey would say. And /Carey/ was considering picking up another guy to email with during the season. A guy who seemed to have plenty of a social life already and still wanted to fit time for writing to Carey in around the edges, well. Carey's not gonna call him on it, not when Karl's never given him reason to think he was anything other than sincere.

He's gotta assume Karl's request for him to not write back was meant sincerely, too.

Yeah, Carey's gonna miss their conversations, but, hell, It might even be good for his own season - after all, he's gonna definitely be a whole lot busier for the next seven months than he ever was over the summer. And, if not, he can always get some shit-talking going with P.K., see where that goes. He'll get by, is the point; it's not like they actually just broke up or anything.

There wasn't anything there to break up, after all...and that thought gets Carey up from the computer and going to dump his first bottle and get himself another beer.

***

Scotland does turn out to be awesome - they win all their games (including the final against the Marlies) and get to see a bit of Edinburgh (including the bars). But there're definitely times when P.K. wishes he were still writing to Roy so he could tell him about something he thinks Roy would particularly appreciate. Some of it would be impossible to talk about without giving something away, of course - and other bits he'd have had to come up with plausible non-hockey related explanations for - but, still, he wishes he still had the option.

He could've at least told Roy about Davey - not mentioning names - and the dare he took their last night there; a good streaking story would surely be okay no matter the context.

P.K. gets through it all, though, in the end. Because of course he does. He may be twitching to sit down with his laptop and write emails off the ice, but on the ice he's focused. He takes the experience and the minutes and the wins, carries them with him back to Hamilton and the rest of training camp - and prepares to have the kind of season that will get him noticed

The thing he wasn't expecting - and probably should've been - is that there's a skill learning curve even in the AHL. Like, he got that he wasn't just gonna step onto NHL ice and immediately be just as good as the guys who'd been doing it for years. But somehow he'd held onto the idea that playing in the AHL wouldn't be too different from the OHL. Despite talking to Stewie a bunch during Twist.

And on the face of it, there is a lot that's the same: the long bus rides between cities, the food they eat after games, the quality of some of the arenas they play in, the age of a lot of the players.

But sometimes they take planes instead of buses and some of the guys he's playing with have been in the minor leagues for close to a decade. And it turns out that P.K. can't just step out of Habs training camp and into the Bulldogs' regular season as a fully-formed AHL player. He's still got stuff - like more defensive responsibility - to learn.

So he dedicates himself to doing just that, just like he'd planned to when he broke things off with Roy.

Getting an email from Pricey after he scores his first AHL goal wasn't in his plans. Don't get him wrong, it's awesome to have Pricey giving him shit for how he scored and telling him not to think he's a stud, now, not when he hasn't scored anything in the big leagues, yet. But he's not sure where it came from, why Pricey's decided to start with the email, now, when he doesn't think they've ever even texted outside of training camp.

And even that was only ever about where people were going to dinner - or whether he wanted to go drinking or dancing on St. Catherine Street.

He's been following Pricey's game a bit, himself, though, so he's got plenty of material to chirp back with. And Pricey giving him shit about not being ready to play with the big boys, yet, is surprisingly good motivational material. Or maybe not so surprising, not when the thing P.K. wants most out of anything is a roster spot that allows him to guard the ice in front of Pricey's crease night in and night out.

He doesn't actually have much time for non-essential email - which makes him feel a bit better about what he told Roy - but it really isn't hard to keep up with Habs highlights and dash off a little something whenever Pricey does something either especially great or especially gooberish.

***

Somehow it's suddenly January and P.K.'s playing in the AHL All-Star Game in Portland, playing on Team Canada and helping them win it in the shootout. And then another month has gone by and he's getting off a bus in Cleveland and being told he's getting shipped back east to join the big club in Philadelphia. Nobody knows whether he's going to get to make his regular season NHL debut against the Flyers, but Markov's injured and there's a chance. So P.K. goes, figures even if he doesn't get to play, he'll have the kind of learning experience you can't get any other way but being there.

But he does get to play. And Pricey's in net. And P.K. gets his first NHL point, an assist on Metropolit's goal that gets them on the board. And all of that's amazing, but the craziest thing turns out to be being on the ice at the same time as CHRIS PRONGER during a scrum near the end of the third. Pronger's got one Hab in one hand and another in the other when P.K. rolls up - and what does P.K. do but wade into the middle of this, bold as brass, and tell Pronger to let 'em go because P.K. wants a piece of that action. Trying to flirt his way into a fight doesn't get him anywhere with Pronger, though: he just rolls his eyes at P.K. and chirps him over his (intentionally) disgusting coffee breath and tells him to scram. And the Habs still lose.

But after the game, P.K. manages to get a seat near Pricey on the plane back to Montreal, not next to him - Pricey's sitting with Gorges - but across the aisle. And that means he gets to retell the whole thing with Pronger to Pricey's perfectly deadpan reception. Which turns out to be pretty great, because he actually gets a smile out of Pricey over the whole coffee breath as weapon part. 

Plus Pricey saying, "Yeah, I'd kick you out of my crease if you smelled like that, too."

The second half of the home-and-home - played in front of their own fans - is, if anything, worse. Halak's in goal, switching off like normal in a back-to-back, and the Flyers get five goals past him in the first two periods, with Briere scoring the first and last of those. The Habs are down 3-0 before Gionta finally gets one past Leighton at the beginning of the second. And then comes the third, where P.K. racks up his second and final assist of the regular season on Gomez's power play goal - and Pricey gets swapped in for Halak, lets in Briere's hatty-making penalty shot halfway through, and then shuts it down for the remainder of the game.

In the middle of all that, Pronger takes a penalty - and P.K. gets some ice-time on the Habs' 2nd power play unit. He's still on the ice - right in front of the Flyers' bench - when Pronger comes bursting out of the box, heading right for him, because, of course, P.K. has the puck. P.K.'s a quick thinker, though - he gets rid of the puck, rimming it back into the Flyers' D-zone for his teammates to deal with, and, when Pronger's nearly up on him, ducks out of the check, side-stepping it perfectly so that Pronger trips over P.K.'s leg and goes face-first into the boards. He comes up yelling, hopping mad at P.K. for thinking he could avoid getting smeared into the boards himself - while all around them, Flyers watch the scene unfold disbelievingly.

It's a perfect moment, a perfect demonstration of how ready P.K. is to play with the big boys - and he finds himself yelling joyfully back, "Suck it, Prongs!" and cupping his free hand in the general area of his junk...for illustrative purposes.

He doesn't get flattened, but they still lose, because of course they don't have four more goals in them with that little of the third left to go - and P.K. gets sent back down to the Bulldogs, not to return until the Habs make it to the second round of the playoffs. But he gets another few good moments with Pricey before he goes - and he goes having learned that he's ready, that if he works hard for the rest of the season and trains hard over the summer? Next year can be his year.

***

P.K.'s half-joking when he first says it, sitting around the Habs' room half-dressed, after being kicked out of the playoffs by the Flyers. And, man, fuck the Flyers. He just wants to cheer Pricey up, make him forget about the goals Halak let in, the ones that mean they won't be advancing to the Final this year. And the fact that he had to spend most of the Habs' playoffs run riding pine.

It's maybe that word association, maybe the sports highlights mumbling along on a television in the corner, that prompts him to say, "They keep talking about us getting on our horses and riding so much, ya gotta wonder whether maybe actually learning to ride might be good for your game," talking complete and utter shit, but barreling on to ask, "whaddya think, Pricey - wanna teach me to handle a horse?" 

At least his mouth's still got enough sense of self-preservation to not specify 'a stallion', there. He's not inherently against making that joke, but, well, there's a time and a place - and this definitely isn't the one to make Pricey think he's inviting himself over for a super long-distance booty call. Not that he'd object to there being one, given P.K.'s tastes and Pricey's everything, but see again about: there being a time and a place for discussing that. And fuck everybody who says P.K. doesn't have any tact.

Pricey looking amused and breaking out something that's attempting to be a smirk is all part of the game plan - him actually saying, "Sure, I can teach your city boy ass to ride - you could come out to BC when you're done with your other playoffs run? My dad and I'll even fly down to VanCity in his plane to pick you up," well, not so much.

P.K.'s too stuck on the part where Pricey's dad apparently _owns a plane_ \- P.K's never known anybody who could just come right out and claim that before - to have much time for the part where he apparently just signed up to spend part of his offseason taking horseback riding lessons. From his favourite goalie. But while his inner monologue is all, _omg, wtf, PLANE_ , his mouth is carrying on without him, coming out with, "Well, better make sure you've got Perrier and the good mixed nuts in stock for me, asshole," like he rides around in people's private planes every day (and has any idea what gets served on them).

Pricey rolls his eyes at that, but whatever, his dad has a private plane; the least they can manage to do is break out the good snacks and give P.K. the full experience.

He guesses he'll get used to riding around in private planes if he makes the NHL for real, but for now even a team jet is still a novelty. And the commercial flight he'll be taking back to Hamilton still seems normal. Maybe he'll be able to manage a little more cool about the Prices' plane by the time the season ends and they work out the timing and logistics.

***

The plane Pricey leads them to is not what P.K. was expecting - it's a small thing, like a sedan with wings and propellers and a tail. And there's an older guy, dressed in jeans and boots and a faded red shirt, leant against its side. P.K. guesses it's Pricey, Sr., since there doesn't seem to be anybody else around to fill that role and he doubts Pricey would've been allowed to take the plane out on his own, since he's never said anything about knowing how to drive a plane in addition to horses and cars (and probably boats, given he grew up in a town named after a lake and all).

After introductions (the older guy is, indeed, Pricey, Sr.) and the stowing of P.K.'s luggage (the plane has room for his backpack and duffel and hockey bag, easy), during which Pricey, Sr. ('call me Jerry') says something about hauling Pricey and all his goalie gear to practice on the regular, well, then it's time to actually get themselves inside the oversized tin can with wings. Pricey made sure he'd gone to the bathroom back at the terminal, when he picked P.K. up at the South Terminal shuttle stop, so there's nothing to stall over. Except asking Pricey, "Hey, is this a full-service flight?"

Pricey just offers him a smirk, the one that reads as 'up to something', loud and clear - and motions P.K. towards the rear door of the plane. It shouldn't really count as an answer, except P.K. knows Pricey and it totally is. And the only way to find out what it actually means is to get in the plane, apparently. So, P.K. starts to do just that - and then stops when he finds his seat already occupied by a plastic lunchbox with a picture of some kind of car-robot things on the front. Which are not Transformers.

P.K. turns, holding the box, which definitely has something inside of it, and says, "Nice...Super Robots. They more than meets the eye, too?" while holding the well-loved plastic up for inspection. If it belonged to Pricey back in the day - and P.K.'s betting it did - well, he definitely got his money's worth out of it. And apparently loved it enough to hold onto it even after he got too old to want to carry a lunchbox with a picture on it.

All Pricey offers in reply, though, is a, "Yep," drawled out like P.K. hasn't been questioning the awesomeness of his childhood.

Pricey Sr. cuts in to tell them, "I filed a flight plan to leave in about ten minutes - and we're not going to get back before dark if we don't get moving, anyway, so how about saving it for later, boys?"

And that gets the lot of them moving to get into the plane and take their seats and buckle in. P.K. sets the lunchbox carefully on the floor between his feet while he deals with untangling the seatbelt and getting it to close - and then doesn't think to pick it up again until they've gotten clearance from the tower to depart and gotten in the air. When he does, he has to just laugh right out loud, 'cos Pricey didn't hold back on the contents - and they definitely aren't Perrier and the fancy kind of mixed nuts.

Instead, the box contains a whole bunch of kid-type snacks including a Capri-Sun pouch, a packet of goldfish crackers, Oreos, a couple sticks of string cheese, some craisins - and even a mini pencil hockey stick set, complete with eraser puck. P.K. pipes up from the back when he discovers this to say, "If you were riding back here with me, we could be playing. Or, wait, no, I could be kicking your butt, since you almost never do any stick-handling."

Pricey comes back with, "I have better puck control than you, though." He sounds smug, the asshole, like P.K.'s puck control even matters - the most he ever needs to do is bat a stray one out of the air and down to the ice.

He clearly has no choice but to ask, "So, what, you'd be playing hand-goal and working on controlling your finger rebounds?"

And then it's on, all the way back to Anahim Lake. P.K. feels a bit bad for Pricey, Sr. - but only a little; the guy had to know what he was getting into, since he had a hand in raising Pricey.

***

The Prices eat a lot of fish, fresh caught from Anahim Lake, because that's what you do during the summer when you live near a real, actually out in the middle of nature lake. P.K. guesses people must fish in Lake Ontario, but he's never met anybody who's eaten anything caught there. Pricey's lake, on the other hand, apparently produces beautiful, fat trout intent on practically flinging themselves into people's canoes. They're delicious grilled, too, as P.K. finds out that first night, at dinner.

The first bite startles a, "Damn, this is good," out of his mouth, followed immediately by an automatic, "Excuse me," 'cos his mom raised him right. And he wasn't actually surprised by the food being good - you don't produce six foot plus of goalie on bad food - so much as how good.

The Prices just laugh at him, though - and Pricey's mom adds, "Well, there's plenty more where that came from," sounding pleased that P.K. approves of the results of her grilling.

***

They're sharing.

They're sharing - and Pricey's bedroom has bunk-beds. Still. Even though he's twenty-three. P.K. is delighted. Well, not about the part where he bets he's going to get stuck climbing a ladder in order to go to bed. But the part where Pricey still sleeps in a room designed for a teenager. Maybe. At best. The poster of Patrick Roy above the desk might say otherwise. But whatever it means, it's AMAZING. And he tells Pricey so.

Pricey just says, "Me and Kayla used to share when we were little. But when she got old enough to have her own room, our parents weren't about to buy me a new bed, too. And, anyway, these are bunk-house bunks. Used by actual cowboys. Or, well, ranch hands," and stubbornly ignores the Roy part of the amazing and delightful equation. Killjoy.

Whatever. P.K. thumps his bag down at the foot of the bed and says, "Well, cowboy, what's the entertainment for the evening?" If Pricey's gonna be a spoilsport about letting P.K. give him shit about his choices in childhood idols, well, he'd better have something awesome planned.

Pricey just shrugs and says, "Well, have you ever sat outside and looked up at the stars?"

"You ever looked up at a Toronto sky at night?" P.K. knows, from vast drunken experience, that all you ever see are the lights of the city reflected back at it. And, yeah, he has actually seen skies full of stars, but he's never bothered paying attention beyond noticing there were A LOT of 'em. And they were pretty.

That gets him a roll of Pricey's eyes as he says, "Well, it's worth it out here. So we're gonna do that, assisted by this," and produces a bottle of whisky, seemingly out of nowhere.

And THAT, that is a plan P.K. can get behind, as he tells Pricey, "Well, why didn't you say so? Lead on, man." And, no, P.K. doesn't need a drink to go with everything, but they definitely improve the average summer evening, no matter what's on the agenda.

'Layer up, first. It's gonna be cooler than you think." And Pricey shoves an old hoodie at him. The Tri-Cities logo on the front is faded, but it's soft, worn with washing - and P.K. doesn't argue about putting it on. Subban's the best, obviously, but Pricey's name doesn't look so bad on him.

When they step outside, it is cooler than P.K. was expecting, but the whisky warms him right back up. And huddling against Pricey, listening to him talk about the stars, telling P.K. their names and the stories Pricey's people tell about them, well, that does the rest. It's a good evening; Pricey's good people.

***

All the meals they eat together are like that first one: delicious food and plenty of laughter, combining perfectly with the good company of the Prices.

P.K.'s encounters with horses don't go nearly as well. For a start, they seem to like him...a little too much. For his first lesson, they went down to a place that rented horses for trail rides and when they went out to the barn to pick out a horse for P.K., he'd spent the entire trip through it trying to fend off the advances of just about every horse on offer. He'd almost asked for the one that had seemed to almost purposefully be ignoring him - but that one had had a look in its eye that seemed to P.K. to spell mischief.

He knew that one from experience.

And anyway, Pricey had picked out a solid, placid girl horse with a shiny black coat for him. A really, really big black horse, as P.K. came to understand when the girl renting her out to them led her out of her stall. Who, if the large, wet set of lips that had suddenly attached themselves to his right ear and started gumming away industriously at it, seemed to think they were some sort of new and particularly delicious treat.

The girl, Kari, immediately pulled sharply on the horse's headgear and said, "Moonshadow, _stop it_ ," and then, to P.K., "you haven't been using any kind of sweet body lotion or anything, have you? She's gotten a taste for it on the girls and she'll sniff it out like anything."

"Yes," P.K. said, because of course he has - his cocoa butter routine may be most important in the winter, when his skin's up against not just the season, but a constant barrage of super-chilled rink air and extra showers, but he keeps it up year round. He's never been one to let his standard of personal grooming slip just because it's vacation, not since he started to care about that kind of thing, anyway. It gets him a lot of positive attention from hook-ups.

And, apparently, oversized ponies with specialized sweet tooths.

"We're just going to ride her double back to the ranch - so I can put her through her paces in our ring, let P.K. here get used to her somewhere she can't run off on him."

Kari nodded, like the stuff Pricey just said meant something when you put it all together. "So, you think you'll want her for what, two, three hours? And maybe the same tomorrow or the day after?"

What P.K. hadn't gotten out of Pricey and Kari talking was that the first thing they'd do involving the horse would be ride it together. Well, the first, first thing was for P.K. to stick his left foot into the left stirrup and swing his right leg up over Moonshadow's back (after Kari and Pricey had gone over all the gear that apparently went on a horse). But then Pricey swung up behind him and settled himself snug against P.K.'s back - and before P.K. could even begin to process what was happening, he'd grabbed the reins from where they were laying across Moonshadow's back and made this clucking noise at her.

And apparently that was all it took to get them going.

The ride back to Pricey's was a lot longer than it had seemed when Pricey's mom had driven them over to the horse rental place that morning. Or at least that was how it seemed to P.K. It wasn't quite how P.K. guessed riding with another person on a motorcycle would be, since there was a bit of saddle back between P.K's ass and Pricey's crotch - but the rest of Pricey's front was still pressed up all close against P.K.'s back. And if P.K.'s visit had actually been a super long-distance booty call, he would've expected this to lead to at least some awesome make-outs. It was just such a good set-up.

As it was, between getting up close and personal with Pricey's spectacular chest and Moonshadow's amazingly smooth gait, it was taking all of P.K.'s focus to keep his mind on checking out the scenery and telling Pricey funny stories about his year in the AHL - and not on all the ways this situation could end up leading to sex.

By the time they made it back to Chez Pricey, he was thinking about roadkill and the smell of Malcolm's midget goalie pads at the end of the season and every single other disgusting thing he could come up with, just to keep his dick in check. It was partially a 'motion of the ocean' thing - and partially a 'my dick's been trapped between the saddlehorn and a hard place for way too long' thing - and partially a 'goddamn, how have I never appreciated just what fine muscles my dear friend Pricey actually has' thing. If he'd had enough privacy to get off, he'd've been whipping it out and rubbing one out on the spot.

Pricey was smirking when he hopped down off Moonshadow's back by the gate to a fenced in circle - which P.K. guessed must be the ring he'd mentioned to Kari - but he didn't say anything about P.K.'s little problem, just unlatched the gate, led Moonshadow through it with P.K. still aboard, and latched it behind them, smirking all the while. Then he unlooped a long coil of rope from the next fence post down from the gate, told Moonshadow to, "Stand," and started messing with her gear, kicking P.K.'s feet out of the stirrups and tying them down, bending down to do something to her legs - and then turning to her head, to loop the reins up and tuck them away, slip the end of the long coil of rope through some of the hardware down by her mouth, and snap it into place.

When he'd done all that, he turned to P.K. and said, "Today, we're going to start by doing some longeing, which means I'm going to make Moonshadow go around in circles - and you're going to learn how to sit again. Sit all her gaits, that is - and how to ask her to change from one to another."

"Wanna say all that last bit again, in English?"

That made Pricey roll his eyes a bit, but he didn't actually refuse to break it down for P.K., just said, in a tone that made it clear just how hard he thought his life was, "There are four basic gaits, the walk, trot, canter (or lope) and gallop - and probably the only one of those you might not have encountered before is the canter. Moonshadow, here, also knows how to amble, which is what she was doing on the ride over. And you're going to have to learn to signal for it, too, if you want to have any fun on an actual trail ride. Since the odds of you getting good at posting quick are...not favorable."

That was a still a lot of words that didn't mean much to P.K., but he figured he could wait for Pricey to demonstrate things before declaring him a failure as a riding teacher.

When P.K. didn't make any more smart remarks, Pricey continued, "We'll start with the first rule of sitting, which is that balance is important. You'll understand exactly how important by the time we're done longeing today, since you won't have stirrups or reins to make up for any deficiencies in your ability to sit squarely on Moonshadow's back. Your legs are just gonna hang there, but if you keep your ass square in the saddle, with your hips square above your feet - and your shoulders square above your hips - you should stay balanced. Also, you'll need to hold your arms out from your sides, with your forearms and hands raised above your legs, the entire time you're in motion," poking and prodding and adjusting P.K. the whole time. he was speaking.

None of it was sexy touching - if anything, Pricey seemed to be treating him like a particularly uncooperative sack of potatoes - but P.K. couldn't stop being aware of any of it. Of Pricey grabbing him by the hips and settling him squarely on Moonshadow's back, Pricey tugging on his thighs and feet, Pricey pushing one way on his lower back and the other on his pecs. When Pricey produced a small set of hand weights from seemingly out of nowhere, though, it all snapped back into focus as just one more form of torture devised by a trainer.

Pricey had the sadistic smirk down, too, though he sounded like he didn't particularly care when he said, "If you think you're gonna have trouble keeping your arms positioned correctly, you can hold onto these and pretend you're doing tricep curls while I run Moonshadow."

P.K. didn't think he'd need them - he was paid to be very good at making his body to very specific things, after all - so unless this whole thing went way long, keeping his arms positioned right shouldn't be too much of a challenge. As he said sunnily to Pricey, "Nah, I think I'm up to the challenge." If he changed his mind, partway through, well, P.K. could make Pricey's day by giving him a chance to say 'I told you so'.

Pricey shrugged, a clear but wordless 'it's your funeral' - and started walking towards the center of the circle, uncoiling the rope as he went. The weights got set down at his feet - and then Moonshadow was in motion and P.K. had entered the world of learning to stay balanced on a horse. Walking was easy enough, like being on a carousel horse that didn't do so much going up and down, but then Moonshadow speeded up unexpectedly and P.K. found himself being rattled and jostled around. A look over at Pricey and his smirk confirmed that, yup, that was intentional.

P.K. put up with it for one circuit of the ring, but after that it seemed like it was time to complain. "Hey, asshole - how 'bout a little less turbulence?" he. grumbled.

"How 'bout you try gripping with your thighs and not fighting Moonshadow's rhythm?" Pricey shot right back.

And now that Pricey had said it, a little more paying attention proved that, yep, there was a rhythm to the jostling and, yes, if P.K. let his body move with it rather than against it, his hips would roll up and down off the saddle pretty regularly, all on their own. It wasn't clean, or practiced, or probably even exactly what Pricey had meant for him to do, but most importantly, it was working. 

P.K. grinned, triumphant, and volleyed back, "My hips don't lie, dude."

Pricey snorted and P.K. could tell he was trying to not sound amused or pleased, but, "So you're an idiot savant at posting. Good to know you'll have a back-up career if the whole hockey thing doesn't work out," sounded pretty fond to P.K.

"Nah, the back-up career is teaching. Used to be dentistry, though." And that still didn't sound like a bad plan - maybe he could even be a team dentist for the Habs, or somebody, anyway. 

"You ever taught anybody anything?"

And P.K. couldn't quite break out a 'your mom' joke in response - Pricey's mom was too awesome to use like that. "Yeah, Davey, everything he knows about flirting. Except for the accent. That's all him."

Pricey's eye-roll was audible. And a moment later, Moonshadow was moving even faster, in a rhythm that made the hip rolling unnecessary. A couple circuits after that, she sped up again, going fast enough that P.K. was suddenly glad for the way the saddle held him in place. Then Pricey had her ring the speed changes in the opposite direction, going slower each time she changed. And this time he had more to say about how P.K. was doing at sitting.

He sounded disgruntled that most of it was actually pretty good. "For somebody who'd never ridden anything before today." And when he brought Moonshadow to a stop and came over to rearrange P.K.'s body to his liking, it was as clinical as it had ever been with a hockey trainer.

They did another round of the same thing, going the opposite direction around the ring, after that. And by the time Pricey was undoing all the stuff he'd done to Moonshadow's gear before they started, P.K. was feeling like he was ready to try something that didn't involve going around and around in circles. He said as much to Pricey, as he was leading Moonshadow out of the ring.

Pricey made a considering sort of sound and didn't say anything while he was putting back the coil of rope and latching the gate - and getting himself back on board Moonshadow, in his place behind P.K. "Well, I guess you could try out the reins on the way back, since I'll be right here. You gotta have soft hands, though. Think deking and dangling, not Chara's cannon. I'll get her started."

Fucking soft hands, jesus - that was all P.K. could get his brain to think for a solid chunk of the way back. Because he'd been noticing Pricey's hands all day and now they were wrapped around his waist. And, really, what was a young man of healthy appetites supposed to do about that except imagine those hands being other places, doing other things? Though they were pretty damn nice where they were, as well.

He wasn't really sure how he didn't do anything dumb with the reins - or that he hadn't, for sure - but if he did, Moonshadow hadn't seemed to notice. And Pricey hadn't had anything to say, either, though when they hit the larger road that led to town, he took the reins back, anyway. And P.K. got to watch him holding them, watch his soft hands getting all up in their business, all the rest of the way back to return Moonshadow. It all had P.K. about ready to fake a desperate need to use the bathroom - and that was without even bringing the back-to-chest situation into it again

***

The riding lessons aren't an every day thing while P.K.'s visiting. The day after the first one, Carey sets the both of them to doing regular, get in shape for the season training, a mix of cardio and stretching and core work and resistance. After breakfast, he leads P.K. out into the woods to do intervals of running and walking along one of the local trails. P.K. still doesn't like running, but he's got more staying power than Carey does, due to actually skating more than the width of the goal mouth on a regular basis. At the five kilometer mark, which is about all Carey can force himself to do without a break, they do crunches, long jumps over logs and box jumps onto and off of tree stumps. When Carey can't justify dawdling any longer, they turn to do the five kilometers back home. Afterwards, sitting on the back deck, they do cool-down stretches.

P.K. doesn't have anything on Carey's flexibility - not surprising, since he's not the goalie in the Subban family - but he's pretty bendy for a D-man; watching him lay there, on his back, with his legs curled up and over his shoulders and head, toes touching the ground, leaves Carey all too aware of the positioning of certain of his body parts in relation to each other.

He's not sure why he thought having P.K. visit would be a good idea. His dick clearly still hasn't gotten the message that teammates are off-limits and P.K. himself seems intent on making everything as hard as possible, including Carey's dick, what with his flirting and his half-nakedness and the way he sits a horse, like posting is a new form of horseback fucking. Spending a substantial amount of the offseason with P.K.: an entirely new form of long, drawn-out torture that's apparently been invented just for him.

***

The next day P.K. gets to sit a horse by himself, while in control of the reins, for the very first time. They ride double out to the stables on Pricey's girl Comet - and pick up Moonshadow for P.K. again once they get there. And then they do the trail-riding thing Moonshadow's apparently trained for.

Pricey leads the way along the trail - and while it's not quite as distractingly hot as riding double was, the way he sits Comet, looking like he was born in the saddle, or like he could've been a centaur in another life, does it for P.K. so goddamn hard. Fuck. He can't decide whether he should bless or curse his big damn mouth for making this whole thing happen, since if he hadn't started spouting off about riding lessons, he never would have known there was anything hot about anything related to horses. And P.K.'s caught Pricey looking, but he refuses to touch beyond the necessary and platonic.

Still, the memories may well be worth their weight in jerk-off fodder gold.

Not that P.K. gets to think about THAT too much while they're out on the trail. Moonshadow may be as bomb-proof as advertised, but P.K. doesn't trust her to not get it into her head to go wandering or decide to get rid of him, just because. He may not have known much about horses before Pricey gave him that first lesson, but he saw that trouble-making look Moonshadow's neighbour back at the barn was sporting and it seems entirely plausible to him that Moonshadow, herself, is just better at hiding it and has been biding her time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to come along. Pricey would probably tell him that horses don't play a long game, but P.K doesn't care.

He's gonna pay attention to things other than Pricey's overwhelming hotness as much as possible.

***

Carey isn't sure what he thought having P.K. come to visit would be like, just that when he'd joked about Carey teaching him to ride, surrounded by the wreckage of their playoffs run going off the rails, it had seemed like a good idea to make his summer include more of P.K.'s particular brand of refusing to let bad shit get to him. And so far that's definitely been true. P.K.'s good with parents and generally game to try anything - reasonable - that Carey suggests. He eats what's put in front of him and offers to help with the clean-up. And he doesn't seem at all fazed by Kayla and her sisterly tricks. Combined with the way P.K.'s everything has been doing it for him, well, it's a goddamn good thing there're over two whole months between the end of the visit and the beginning of training camp.

The looks Kayla's been giving Carey suggest she's noticed all of this, as well - and that she's going to have something to say about it when P.K.'s no longer in residence.

They've called an unspoken truce around the small fire they got going out back tonight, though. P.K.'s time in Anahim Lake is almost up and Kayla clearly thinks it's in everybody's best interests to not ruin the bit he has left with pointed remarks or completely unsubtle suggestions. She may be a little too prone to poking her nose into his business, but she at least seems to get that when there is business for her to poke into, it's still his to handle.

Though she has no compunctions whatsoever about trotting out the stories of all his most embarrassing childhood moments for P.K.; she's never had enough of a sense of shame to care if he does the same thing right back.

Just then she's telling the story of the time twelve year old Carey had gone running towards the end of the dock and diving into the water - and come up separated from his newly purchased, to be grown into trunks. And then spent hours diving for them fruitlessly, before finally admitting what had happened and asking for an assist with a towel or another pair of shorts. It's been over a decade since and Carey can still remember the panic he'd felt at being unexpectedly naked in the water - and his bafflement at the trunks' disappearance, given under other circumstances he would've expected them to float.

He's not even that embarrassed by that one, really - it was just so strange, and as he tells P.K., "We never did figure out what happened to them - but it was a running game the rest of the summer, coming up with possibilities. Like, freak spontaneous black hole? Could be. Phantom underwater tree branch? People already claim the lakes up here are haunted by weirder shit, so why not. Passing fish with an appetite for swimwear? That's even happened before."

There's a moment of quiet where all of them contemplate the existence of fish that eat bathing suits and then P.K. busts out with, "BC is really weird." and then, "I definitely didn't go swimming in any bathing suit stealing lakes when I was twelve. Hell, I didn't swim in anything except a pool until the summer after my first year with the Bulls, when Murph invited me up to his family's cottage. We didn't exactly do much of this nature stuff back in Toronto."

"Aren't there beaches on Lake Ontario?"

"Yeah, s'posed to be - but when I was little I don't think my parents trusted the water. And then when I got older, I was mostly too busy with hockey in the summer - and I'd already gotten used to going to the pool instead. They're apparently pretty good these days, though, so I should maybe check them out when I get back. If I can do it without getting attacked by a mob of angry Leafs fans."

"And you never went camping or anything? Toasted marshmallows over an open fire? Caught fish?"

"I didn't really do anything except school and hockey." P.K. shrugs, then adds, "But I grew up near an arboretum, if that helps? Like, I knew what a tree looked like. I just didn't do scouts or anything - and the only vacations my family ever took were to see relatives or to do hockey things. And before you get all horrified and spring into action, I did get to toast marshmallows when I visited Murph's cottage." He pauses for a beat, shoots Carey a conspiratorial grin, continues, "They were horrified by my deprived childhood, too."

Kayla says, mildly, "We were already thinking about doing it tonight, but that just makes it a moral imperative. There's no way you can make up for a childhood without campfires if you don't even try," and gets up to walk back up to the house.

"That also means we've gotta tell ghost stories. Can't give you the 'real' campfire experience without some of those."

"Pff, guys told those when we were on the road for tournaments or away games. And even if they hadn't, I bet just living in the city gives your stories a run for their money."

"Yeah? Give me an example, then."

"Dunno if you've ever heard of Rexdale - but if not, it's the neighborhood in Etobicoke where I grew up. And also - a few kilometers away, on the other side of Highway 27 - the site of a gang war. And if you're thinking, 'like the Crips and the Bloods', well then, yeah, exactly like that. Though some of the worst of it was between rival Crip factions.

The thing is: that coulda been me if things had gone differently. Lot of those kids were Jamaicans or the sons of Jamaican immigrants - and if I'd grown up in the wrong part of the neighborhood, didn't get to have hockey or anything to feel good about. Didn't get to have a future. Well, enough of the kids I went to school with came outta there, I know how much reputation matters if you don't think you have anything else."

"Now, the stuff I remember the most vividly was from when I was close to moving up to college - old enough to be paying attention and understand what it meant, kinda, but not so old I was focused on my hockey future to the exclusion of everything else but school. Jamestown and Mount Olive Crescents were at war around then, shooting each other down in the streets, but all I knew was that it was scary, not just how big of a tangled mess it was.

Still, I remember a couple specific times when one set of 'em shot somebody from the other side - and then those guys went looking for retribution. And THEY got somebody who lived there, but wasn't a gang member, maybe on purpose to send a message, or maybe just because they THOUGHT the guy was in their rival gang. And, y'know, I decided way back then that I never wanted that to be me if I could help it."

"Seems like gang membership probably isn't in your future."

"But who knows about getting shot - the odds of that one for me aren't the best, particularly if I ever end up playing for one of the U.S. teams."

Carey doesn't know any actual numbers, in terms of statistics related to gun violence, but he's not so isolated from the news to not know that getting cut down by a bullet is an all too likely fate when you're a black guy. It's not as bad in Canada as it is in the U.S., but it's still not great. And First Nations guys are even worse off. Carey doesn't want that for either of them.

***

June 26, 2010

British Columbia has A LOT of trees. It's not like P.K. didn't already know this or anything, between flying in and out of the province, flying up to Anahim Lake - and the past two weeks in Anahim Lake, itself. But it's somehow being brought home to him in a whole new way by driving along the Chilcotin-Bella Coola Highway.

It's like the opening to one of those movies where the country kid strikes out for the big city to make her fortune, except P.K.'s done that twice in reverse, already, going from Toronto to Belleville and Montreal to Hamilton - and even Pricey's years out from that first momentous sequence where the only home he'd ever known slipped away in the rearview mirror. Anyway, if they're like anybody on a road-trip, it's muppets, like in the first movie, with Kermit and Fozzie singing their way west to Hollywood.

P.K. hasn't seen the movie in years, can't remember the words to the song they sing, but the feeling of it it resonates - if he has his way, he's on his way to making it, too, and it kinda makes him want to sing something, even if it isn't that song.

They haven't dialed anything up on the radio, though, so when he reaches out to touch the slider, he does ask Pricey, "Mind if I find a bit of driving music? Fair warning that I'll probably sing along, though - that's one of the hazards of going on a road-trip with me."

 

Turns out that P.K.'s good company for the solid five hour drive between Anahim and Williams Lakes, too. Carey already knew he told a killer story and had decent taste in music, but he's good for the natural silences that well up over any longer stretch of time, seems as happy to stare out the window at the passing trees as he is to serve up another helping of humour at his Bulldogs' teammates expense.

The current story is well worth the price of admission, as well, though.

Carey slows the truck and trailer as they approach the turn-off for the Stampede Grounds. He's leaving Comet and her trailer there, overnight - Comet in the stables and the trailer parked outside, locked to a fence rail. The turn isn't bad, clearly designed with the driving needs of horse trailers in mind, among other things and getting Comet settled in the barns is easily done once Carey tracks down the person in charge who can tell him where he's supposed to put her.

 

After getting Comet stabled at the Stampede Grounds, they pull up at a motel a bit down the road - apparently Pricey's usual when he spends the night in the Williams Lake area. It's pretty old-school: a single long, low building, with an office-slash-lobby combo in the middle and VACANCY picked out in neon beneath the large red-and-white sign proclaiming it the ValleyView. It definitely doesn't look like it comes with a continental breakfast.

Though, amazingly enough, the sign does also advertise that all the rooms come with wi-fi.

When the front desk clerk says, "I'm sorry, but the only room we have available is a single Queen," well, P.K. can't say he's surprised. Sitting in Pricey's truck all day, talking about shit, of course that was leading up to them having to share not just a room, but a bed. It's like something straight out of an amateur porn set-up: good friends have to share a bed, end up getting a little more 'friendly' than expected.

Not that he's counting on getting to know Pricey any better than he already does, or anything - at least not in any way but the intellectual - but he sure wouldn't object if it happened.

And that's not the major issue at hand, anyway; Pricey's standing there looking like he asked P.K. a question or something, with a good guess being whether or not P.K. minded sharing. So P.K. shakes his head, says, "Nah, it's fine." It's not like they want to drive back the way they came to try the last motel they saw before this one when they've got a room they can book right here, not with all these people in town for the rodeo.

And then Pricey's turning back to the clerk and saying, "Okay, we'll take it." 

After they've gotten their keys - and a recommendation of the Hungry Bear Diner as a place to get dinner (and breakfast), which has Pricey nodding along - they haul their bags into the room and discover their single bed with its dark green, floral print bedspread, and cubicle of a bathroom. The main thing it has to recommend it is that it's indoors - and the bed is mostly big enough to hold the both of them.

At least they only have to share it for one night.

Dinner, in the end, is something the menu names as Grizzly Burgers, paired with mounds of their house-cut fries. And salads, because it may be early in the offseason, yet, but their nutritionists would kill them if they slacked off the vegetables, entirely. The burgers are huge, dripping with cheese and mounded with bacon and grilled onions - which P.K. paired with avocado and Pricey with mushrooms - and by the time they've demolished them and their sides, P.K.'s about ready to be rolled out of the restaurant.

He's had a really good time eating dinner out with just Pricey, though. In the past, during development and rookie and traning camps, they've always gone out in groups, same as during the post-season. And even during the past two weeks, the only times they were ever out alone, it was to get a beer or a snack, maybe an ice cream. Partly that was because there wasn't much of a choice of places to eat in Anahim Lake. But it seemed to P.K. that it was also partly because Pricey hadn't wanted to spend too much time in town, around people who would want to ask him questions or give him shit for whatever he'd done most recently they felt deserved to be chirped.

Here, in Williams Lake, only a few hours down the road, it seems like the waitress might know Pricey - or at least know who he is - but if so, he's a lot more relaxed about it; he definitely doesn't seem to be looking over his shoulder, expecting conversational ambush - and relaxed is a really good look on him.

The conversation's been flowing, twisting from what to eat at this diner to their favorite foods at other diners - P.K. got to wax rhapsodic about the joys of a perfect slice of cheesecake from his local back in Toronto - to childhood favorites, which led to more stories about themselves as kids. Hockey features in those a bunch, of course - and P.K. wouldn't have it any other way - including stuff about how Pricey's family kept a second place in Williams Lake just to make it easier for him to play hockey. But P.K.'s favorite books come up, too, and so does the first time Pricey's dad took him hunting. There's nothing deep about it, not like their conversation around the campfire, but it's some good talking, anyway.

It makes him feel like he and Pricey might be real friends, now, the way he and Johnny are - except for how he doesn't want to fuck Johnny all the time.

 

Back in the room, they flip through the channels on the TV across from the foot of the bed, end up finding a movie to watch and sitting up against the headboard watching it. P.K. wins on the question of which movie to pick because the first thing they stumble across that either of them recognize and have positive feelings about is Troy - so they get to spend a couple hours staring at beautiful half-naked men looking ridiculously hot while being stupid good at fighting. It's kinda everything P.K. loves about the movie (and about _300_ \- his other favorite in the genre - as well): wall-to-wall hotness combined with people doing amazingly athletic things he wouldn't even want to contemplate.

Especially if he had to do them on ice - he doesn't even want to think about his life if he had to haul around some huge sword on top of all the rest of his gear...and use it to settle fights; yeah, that had better never happen

On the other hand, "Sean Bean can wield a sword any time he wants, anywhere he wants. Though he might not wanna do it on ice, either."

Pricey looks like he doesn't quite know what to make of where P.K.'s brain went with that at the end, though he says, easy enough, "Sean Bean can do just about anything he wants, anywhere he wants - whenever he feels like it." He's raising an eyebrow in a way that's totally inviting P.K. to share, though.

P.K. says, "Can you imagine hockey if everybody carried swords as well as sticks?"

"...there might be fewer head injuries?"

"But think about the armor everybody would have to wear - pads DEFINITELY wouldn't cut it - we'd end up creeping around like we were all wearing goalie pads."

"Maybe not if it was chain mail?"

P.K. nods his head, says "But I wouldn't trust just anybody with a sword. Definitely not all of my teammates on the Bulls."

Pricey shakes his head, says, "Yeah, no - my guys are awesome, but there's only a few of 'em I'd want carrying bladed weapons. I wouldn't object to getting to carry a boot knife in my pads, though, have more of a chance of defending my crease that way."

"Be useful against pests, for sure. Bet Brodeur woulda liked one when Avery was getting all up in his face."

"The Brodeur Corollary to the Avery Rule: a goalie may pull his weapon on any player on the opposing team who spends an excessive amount of time in or in the vicinity of the goalie's crease while not facing the play IF the officials do not call a penalty after 30 seconds? 45?"

"Much longer than that and they're probably screwing up a line-change anyway."

And that gets Pricey nodding, like there's actually something sensible about this conversation they're having, about this alternate universe where hockey players somehow manage to fight with swords. P.K. shakes his head and says, "You can keep your boot knife, but I think I stand by my complete and utter lack of desire to ever try wielding a sword on the ice."

Pricey snorts - and P.K. shrugs, all whatever, as he feels a satisfied smile bloom on his face. There's still plenty of good movie to watch.

Getting ready for bed, afterwards, they take turns in the bathroom and strip down to their boxers. P.K.'s not a modest sort of guy and that's as much - or more than - he'd wear swimming; he's not gonna get weird about sharing a bed with another guy while shirtless. Particularly not when that guy's Pricey and P.K.'s all about the way he looks with his shirt off. Pricey doesn't comment one way or the other, just checks the temperature setting on the in-room thermostat and then helps P.K. strip the slippery bedspread off the bed. P.K. leaves his bedside lamp on until he's made it under the covers and pulled them up nearly to his chin, warding off the sickly chill produced by the air conditioning unit beneath the window.

Then P.K. lies there on his back, waiting for Pricey to get settled on his side, as well.

The bed hasn't magically gotten any bigger between when they dropped their bags off and going to bed, though, so it's not long before they're both turning onto their sides, curling up a bit to get more room for their legs without having their feet threatening to hang over the end. And while P.K. doesn't fall asleep immediately, there's no endless staring out into the darkness, either. Somewhere in there he gets lulled to sleep by the familiar rhythm of Pricey's breathing, going under between one breath and the next.

***

June 27, 2010

At first Carey thinks he's dreaming, dreaming the full lips moving against his; the thickly muscled thigh he's rubbing off against; the strong hands, stroking his arm and scratching trails down his back; the tiny, muffled sounds; the hot, close smells. And maybe that last one should've given it away - Carey's never dreamt in smells - but it's all so good that he doesn't question it, just gets his tongue involved, uses it to coax those plush lips open, work his way inside, stroke it against his dream lover's. Which turns out to have been a fucking great move, because it earns him a hard cock rubbing against the thigh he's got wedged between this perfect dream guy's - and another string of perfectly wet, muffled sounds floating up to his ears. It's all so goddamned unbelievably hot that, even though it's a dream, Carey doesn't think he's going to be able to last much longer. 

Really, it's a good thing he can't see anything, since his brain's doing just fine getting ready to bust one out without any visual input butting in.

Of course, then his brain has to go and spoil things by somehow retrieving the information that when Carey went to sleep, there was another person in the bed with him - and concluding that there's no reason to think that P.K. isn't still asleep on the other side of Carey's dream hook-up. And then, in a stunning display of dream logic, it works out that it would be a dick move to get off - even in a dream - with P.K. sleeping next to him. And that leads to dragging himself up from sleep (almost physically having to crank his eyelids up and his eyes open) only to have his brain freeze up on him while his body carries on when he gets an eyeful of who he's been up to in his sleep.

Because it turns out that P.K.'s not so much an unwilling bystander in Carey's dream hooking up, as the other participant - and Carey can see perfectly clearly that his eyes are still closed and his face still soft with sleep.

He's still rubbing his thick, hard cock against Carey's thigh, though - and rubbing his hard thigh against Carey's still-interested cock. And, okay, Carey knows enough to know that P.K. wouldn't be disturbed to wake up and discover he'd accidentally gotten off with a guy, that he'd probably be more upset that he didn't get to be awake while it happened. But that doesn't cancel out the fact that no matter what Carey's been thinking the past couple weeks, he's got a rule about not doing stuff with teammates. And, yeah, there aren't any guarantees about them being teammates next season, but Carey wants that to be what happens, because P.K. deserves it. And he doesn't want to have made that complicated, not because he couldn't exercise a little self-control.

Of course, the not-complicated ship's probably already sailed - the way P.K.'s rubbing desperately against him and the urgent noises he's making suggest that he's going to come soon, whether Carey likes it or not - so he might as well make it a double, because for all his misgivings, he's totally fucking into riding P.K.'s thigh directly to a happy ending.

If he has to be awake for it, so does P.K., though. And they're gonna lose the underwear, because fuck coming in your shorts once you're old enough to drink. And if P.K. doesn't mind, Carey's gonna get a hand on him, get the most out of what's probably gonna be his only hook-up with a guy for the foreseeable future. Carey's got priorities - and, like, standards.

So he bites at P.K.'s lips and says, "P.K. P.K., c'mon, _wake up_ ," trying not to sound desperate, though, fuck, he is, suddenly gone from cruising to fucking ready to floor it.

P.K.'s responds with, "Mmm, nice…," drawled out all fucked-out and deep, but then his eyes come open and he sees Carey and he finishes, "not a dream." And he sounds like that's mostly a good thing, but he'd kinda like to check to be sure.

He doesn't though, and Carey refuses to let this get awkward, so he just pushes directly on with, "Not so much. Now, you wanna get your underwear out of the way..."

And P.K. nods and carefully pushes his boxer briefs down over his cock, while Carey does the same with his, letting out a little sigh of relief when the elastic stops digging in and his cock can spring free. Carey's got a goal, though, to get a hand on P.K.'s cock as soon as possible, so he focuses on that and on the gratifying noises P.K. makes in response - and is only vaguely aware that P.K.'s had the same idea and gone for his, as well, until P.K.'s playing with his foreskin. Fuck, but he's not going to last long, not with how long it's been since he's had anybody's hand but his own do this. 

Then P.K. gets his mouth back on Carey's, as well, apparently determined to fit as much messily, filthily hot kissing as possible into their race for the finish - and Carey's just finished, going off like a fucking teenager who's never been touched before. He keeps his hand on P.K's dick, though, squeezes it maybe a little harder than he had been while he's getting flattened by his orgasm - and when his brain comes back online a minute or so later, finds that P.K. has shot all over both of them and collapsed half on top of Carey, afterwards.

He's smiling this dazed, slightly stupid smile that Carey finds himself finding ridiculously endearing - which is something he needs to shut down right now, since he's never going to get to see it again. Which means cutting this laying in bed, cuddling stuff off at the pass. He shoves P.K. off him, gently, sits up, and says, "So, showers, clothes, breakfast, horses - and don't say we don't have to get up, yet; the alarm's about to go off any minute, now. And I really don't want to be late to the Stampede." He's trying to keep it matter-of-fact rather than mean, like mutual orgasms were just part of the road-trip overnight morning checklist and there's no need to discuss them.

When he turns back from swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, getting his boxers off and using them to wipe up, it seems like he did okay with that. P.K.'s sitting there performing the same first-stage clean-up operation and he looks, well, normal. Maybe a little smirk-y, even. But definitely not like Carey just stomped on his heart or dashed his romantic dreams. So, okay. Today might get to continue being alright.

 

P.K. sings in the shower, smiles through digging out a clean shirt and underwear, and sits down to breakfast at the Hungry Bear feeling a real kinship with the restaurant's namesake. No surprise - sex tends to leave him feeling happy and hungry. So he flirts with their waitress and orders three eggs with cheese, a short stack of buckwheat pancakes, a side of sausage, oatmeal, fruit salad, a large orange juice and coffee. Pricey trades the eggs for a loaded omelette, the buckwheat pancakes for buttermilk, the sausage for bacon, and the orange juice for grapefruit, but otherwise matches P.K. calorie for calorie. And once it starts arriving, they both pretty much inhale everything that isn't nailed down, not bothering to spare time for talking.

It's a good, easy kind of breakfast.

But they still end up splitting a massive piece of strawberry-rhubarb pie afterwards, while drinking their third cups of coffee. And fighting over who gets the last piece of crust. Yeah, it's gonna be a good day.

After that, they circle back to the Stampede Grounds, P.K. singing along to the radio, because it's a great kind of day so far and it can only be improved by getting his song on. - in as ridiculous a manner as possible. Because, well, how else is he supposed to let the world know just how good that orgasm left him feeling? Plus, it gets him Pricey sitting there, being all stoic about P.K. getting emotions all over the place.

He smiles even wider, belts out the lyrics to ROXANNE a little bit louder - and is hitting a particularly enthusiastic high note just as they pull to a stop outside the barn.

 

There's a lot of standing around waiting to rodeo, particularly compared to hockey, and if Carey had bothered to think about it before, he would've expected P.K. to find it boring. Instead he seems happy to sit in the Stampede stands and watch the show, asking questions and cheering indiscriminately, until it's time for Carey to take his place. He flirts with Carey about as much as he ever has, touches him about the same, too - taking his cues from Carey's reactions - and does all of it in what can only be described as an infectiously good mood. It seems like this morning, when they woke up rubbing off against each other, belongs to some other universe.

If Carey didn't distinctly remember what P.K.'s mouth tasted like and how P.K.'s dick felt in his hand, well, he'd almost think he'd dreamed it.

As is, he puts the whole question out of his mind when the time comes for him to compete. When the P.A. announces Pairs Roping is on deck, he tells P.K. to stay where he is, then takes off to find Wade and check Comet's gear. P.K. doesn't listen, of course, not completely; when Carey returns to the barns with Comet, post-run, P.K.'s hanging out by the doors, waiting for them.

He holds his hand up for a high-five, then leads Carey into a low-five, all before letting him enter the barn with Comet, then falling into step with them on the walk to Comet's assigned stall. 

Carey and Wade won't be winning any prize money off Williams Lake - their time, even if it was official, wouldn't have been good enough to crack the top ten. They'd been paired with a wily bastard of a steer and even though they'd landed both their ropes cleanly and gotten them dallied up without any trouble, the time it had taken them to get him into position had been enough to undo them in the standings. Still, Carey's not displeased with his performance.

And P.K.'s being enthusiastically complimentary about it, as well, saying stuff like, "Man, you sure showed him - he was all, 'can't touch this'" and P.K. does the 'oh-oh, oh-oh's while dancing forward a step or two, "but he was wrong, so wrong." It's all just the normal kind of talking up his teammates P.K. does after a win, nothing new about it.

It gets Carey smiling, just being reminded what a goofball P.K. is. He smiles through currying Comet and getting her loaded into her trailer. And he's still smiling when they pull out of the Stampede Grounds, heading east towards 150 Mile House and their turn to the south.

He's got a feeling the rest of the trip is going to be great.

***

The 2010 go-round of Twist is much like the previous one. The crowd from the previous year is back, ready for another solid week of group training, with Skinny and Devo as their newly drafted friends in need of congratulations and chirping. They went 7th and 42nd overall, respectively, which ain't half bad for a former figure skater and another black kid from the wrong part of Toronto. Hell, 42 is one better than P.K. managed. And also the meaning of life. 

It's a good number, is what he's saying.

But whatever expectations Devo and Skinny may have, P.K.'s determined that this year's training will pay off in not just a season in the AHL - which, to be fair, included a trip to the AHL All-Star Game and winning the President's Award - but an actual roster spot with the Habs. He's ready. He knows he is. He just has to look ready when he shows up in camp, which means kickstarting the progress he'll make over the rest of the summer. Thus: Twist.

And just like last year, it's a week of good, solid, hard work, capped by a trip to what is now THEIR country western bar, where P.K. finally learns to line dance and gets his last taste of Pricey until camp - which last part is not so great; P.K.'s gonna be jerking off a lot.

***

July 11, 2010

The email from P.K. isn't a surprise - they started right back up again when P.K. emailed to thank Carey and his family for having him to stay - but the message from Karl, which arrives while he's reading what P.K. has to say about the first night out he's had with his guys since they'd returned to Toronto, very much is. It's been most of a year since Carey's heard anything from him and while he hadn't completely given up hope of ever hearing from Karl again, he certainly hadn't expected again to be now, smack in the middle of the summer. If Karl had been going to surface again before Carey headed back to Montreal for training camp, he'd vaguely thought it might have happened back around when Carey'd first written to him the summer before. And, yet, here he is writing to 'Roy' about what he's been up to recently, brazenly waltzing right past the fact that he's been out of touch for months to say:

_Just thought you might like to know: I learned to ride this summer. Yes, me, the guy who prefers to live a life served by machines. But what can I say - it seemed like a good idea at the time. And I got lessons from a friend of mine, so I didn't even have to put out to do it. Turns out I have a pretty natural seat, too - and could've maybe been making a living at this horse thing the whole time. Not that I actually want a change of career at this point. Not when I've got a really good feeling about how the past year's work is going to pay off next year. And I hope you can forgive me for not going into details about just what that was; I don't want to brag when there's still a chance it all might not work out the way I want it to._

Riding was definitely a nice change from that hard work I spent the past year putting in, though - used some different muscles (and boy was I sore after the first real ride I went on) and made me feel like I get it a bit more, like I belong a bit more.

***

July 15, 2010

_It's good to hear from you, man - and while I'll definitely admit to being curious about what you've been up to and whether you spent the year in Montreal - I'll take your tales of learning to ride until you feel ready to share your big secret. I get not wanting to tell people when you're doing something big just in case talking about it like it's definitely going to happen somehow pisses off the universe and makes it so it doesn't happen. I'll even send good thoughts your way in hopes that that helps._

Though, just saying, I've always found that publicly declaring my intent to do something means I'm more likely to actually do it - and I promise not to laugh too much if you tell me and it still doesn't happen. No pressure, though. Don't wanna psych you out, not about something that's clearly this important to you.

And P.K. almost has to laugh at that, at Roy's understanding, when if he knew who P.K. actually was and what he was trying to do, he'd know that there's no way he could secretly try and make the Habs' roster. No way he could've gotten as far as he has without publicly declaring his intent to go as far in hockey as possible as far back as minor hockey. It's not like art, where you can hone your skills in private and sometimes walk out with a masterpiece nobody even knew you were working on.

Not that P.K.'s ever created a masterpiece, but you never know; he totally COULD.

***

July 16 - August 1, 2010

Training in Kelowna and doing rodeo on the weekends doesn't leave Carey much brain for writing emails - and his first priority is corresponding with his agent, trying to get his contract shit settled. His ongoing email thread with P.K. devolves into an exchange of links pretty quickly. And a week or so after that, he gives up on trying to manage anything more substantial than a bit of flirting with Karl. 

Then things get weird.

When Karl first starts adding links to their flirting, sending Carey random clips on YouTube and that kind of thing, Carey doesn't think anything of it. It's low pressure - and while he's generally seen whatever Karl is sharing before, he doesn't mind watching it again. About a half dozen link exchanges in, however, Carey notices something weird: every link Karl has sent him is one Carey sent to P.K. first - and what's more, they've been appearing in the same order. Now, it's possible it could be a coincidence - Carey hasn't been going for super obscure stuff and a guy looking for the same sort of things would have a reasonable chance of stumbling upon those things in the same order. But once you bring the timing of the whole thing into the equation, well, Carey has his suspicions.

Which he just needs to find a way to test.

***

August 3, 2010

There's a new message from Karl waiting in Carey's inbox the day after he sent the link to the weird stuff to P.K. It's not unexpected - Carey had also replied to the more serious message Karl had sent the day before, where he'd talked about riding the bus and how people decided whether to sit next to him - and who chose to stand, instead, and why. And Carey opens this new one feeling ambivalent, unsure whether he's hoping for more on the subject of fear and stereotypes or the proof he's set himself up to receive. When he clicks, finally, the note turns out to be short, casual, to the point:

_So, I've got this buddy from BC - I've mentioned him before, I think - and he sent me this link to this video, which he apparently thinks is the funniest thing to ever be funny. And I've just got to ask you, 'cos this is SUPER bizarre: is he pranking me here? Or is this actually just some new quirk of the rural BC sense of humour I'm getting introduced to? I'd get it if I'd grown up there._

[LINK]

_Like, seriously, I get that a joke is never as funny if you have to explain it - I tell plenty of them myself - but I'm begging you, either let me in on the secret or put me out of my royally pranked misery. Am I being laughed at or with? I can deal with either, DUH, but I'm sure you understand what I mean when I say that they deserve different responses. Is there a prank war I should be escalating? Or do I just need to give my buddy another round of shit about people from BC being weird_

Obviously that last one's partially rhetorical, since it's always time to give him shit about BC attracting the weird. But you feel me, man, about the importance of responding in the event of a prank war, right? There's honour at stake.

There's a moment after Carey gets to the end when he just sits there and thinks: that's one. It's possibly even one and a half - if he wants to give partial points for style and that stuff about prank wars and honour - but it's definitely at least one point in favor of the conclusion Carey's reluctantly drawing. But it's still not conclusive, not to Carey's way of thinking. Though it does give him an idea for how to get to two, how to build his case that it's P.K. out there behind Karl's profile.

P. _K._

P.K.'s gonna help him close the link circle. And then Carey'll do...something about it. He can figure that out later.

***

August 4, 2010

P.K. wouldn't say that he'd been waiting with bated breath for Roy's answer, but there's no question that he's on it the moment he sees it waiting for him, calling his name seductively after a morning workout heavy on core work and light on breaks. Fortunately, nobody's around to see the way he flops on his bed and stares at his laptop screen. He's got his suspicions about what the look on his face is saying - everybody who knows him well says he's an emotional Easy Reader - and all his siblings are merciless about that kind of thing when their parents aren't around to rein them in.

_Your buddy definitely COULD be pranking you - but it's also definitely possible that he's serious. I'm not gonna deny that we've got some odd birds out here in BC It's hard to tell for sure without knowing more, though. So I guess all I've got for you at this point are a few questions in return: does this guy send you links to stuff frequently - and is this typical of what he sends you? Just slightly weird for him? Or completely off the deep end into the crazy pool?_

Regardless of where this falls on the weird scale for him, though, I do understand the importance of being ready to escalate in a prank war - and I got sucked down a link-hole after watching the thing your buddy sent you (for evaluation purposes, obviously), which led me to this:

[LINK]

_And, in my humble opinion, THAT would be a perfect choice for a thing to send in return, since it should work as either a demonstration that you GET IT or as a little bit of an escalation. Without going nuclear on the dude. Well, unless this guy's the kind you HAVE to go nuclear with if you ever want the prank war to end. Obviously I don't know enough to know that. But I figured I'd give you the option, if you wanted it. Since I had it handy and all._

***

August 6, 2010

And that's two. Or maybe two-point-five, if he's still counting the context stuff. Because P.K.'s gone and closed the circle of links. Sitting there, in Carey's inbox, is an email titled _Specially chosen for BC weirdos_. It's from P.K. - and Carey's already read it three times, just to be sure that it does, in fact tell him:

_A friend of mine from BC thought you might enjoy this one:_

[LINK]

_Hope he was right! I'm still not exactly sure what you guys see in this stuff...but who am I to judge?_

(jk - totally judging)

Because that link is, in fact, THE link, the one that Carey, as Roy, sent to Karl, with the suggestion that it would make good counter-pranking material. Which P.K. has apparently taken to heart. Without bothering to dress it up with any sort of cover story. But, then, why should he think he'd need to? Unlike Carey, he still thinks there are three people involved in this situation, that Carey is a separate person from Roy.

Two - or possibly two-point-five - still isn't enough to have him pulling the trigger on any revelations, though; if he's gonna make this weirder and more awkward, he's gonna do it with rock-solid proof on his side. So more investigative emails it is. After he takes a nap, though.

This is no time to go off half-cocked.

***

August 7, 2010

_Who's the friend from BC?_

No, I'm not claiming to know everybody in the province, but from what I know of your social circle, it tends to run to hockey, and I bet I know most of the guys you'd be likely to meet that way.

***

August 8, 2010

_So, I'm just gonna say, up front: this is a really fucking dumb story. No judging, man. Okay?_

But what happened is that during last year's Bulls' playoffs run, my guys got a little bit crazy during our last series, the one against Brampton. We were watching some playoffs game - one of the NHL ones, obviously - and this ad for a dating website came on. You know the ones I'm talking about, right? The ones with the farmers and the talking animals?

Anyway, I was in the bathroom at the time, so I don't actually know what they were thinking, what made them think 'yes, of course making P.K. an account would be a great idea'. But when I came back out of the bathroom, Murph had his laptop out and the rest of them were clustered around him, making drunken suggestions about what my profile should say. And I was way too late to stop them.

Eventually, they decided their 'masterwork' was complete - to give credit where credit is due, most of the good stuff came courtesy of the Nicks - and they saved everything and Murph put his laptop away and we got back to watching hockey and talking about how that was maybe going to be us someday. Though maybe not if we didn't win the next game we played, 'cos we'd been winning enough, mostly, but we were down 3-2 in that round. And we knew we needed to score more.

ANYWAY, the point is that we all mostly forgot about it. We went out and played - and lost - that next game against Brampton. We got smashed afterwards. And then we all went home for the summer. My account somehow got approved somewhere in there, but I ignored it and all the messages people sent me. I was too busy spending time with my family and friends, going out clubbing in Toronto, blowing off a little steam before starting training back up; the last thing I was looking for was actual dates.

But then, somewhere in the middle of July, this guy from BC sent me a message that actually caught my attention and made me want to respond to it. Which I did. And that led to a whole summer of what turned out to be some pretty great conversation. He was totally up-front about how he hadn't wanted an account on the site, either, and it was all just really chill. Except for how, the longer it went on, the worse I felt about how my guys had made me out to be someone I'm totally not in my profile. And the more I wondered what it would be like having those conversations if he actually knew who I was.

I mean, okay, obviously I didn't want to be on there as ME, me. But, still, I'm not so much a fan of lying. And this dude was a good dude who didn't deserve to be lied to like that. Then, in the fall, when I got cut from training camp and sent down to the Bulldogs, it all just began to seem like too much to deal with, not if I wanted to actually be able to concentrate, be able to play the kind of season that would get me back in Montreal sooner rather than later. So I made my excuses and cut contact.

And that might've been it if you hadn't taught me to ride this summer. But you did. And after that, I couldn't stop myself from writing again to let him know. And one thing led to another - the latest of which was that link. Because apparently the weird BC sense of humour really is a thing.

I still don't know what to do about the fact that he has no idea I'm a maybe kinda big deal hockey player, though. Or if there's anything there to do anything about.

That's three. Or, three-point-five. Whatever. Four. Five. Hell, Carey doesn't even know how many, just that he lived that story from the other side of it, complete with P.K.'s previously inexplicable months-long silence. But he still doesn't know what to do about the fact that he's got proof.

Yeah, he's generally a pretty straight-forward and up-front guy, but. There just isn't anything straight-forward about any of this. And maybe it's kind of a dick move, but he wants to make ending this P.K.'s move. 

***

August 9, 2010

There's other stuff in there, but it might as well be in Greek for all that P.K.'s absorbing any of it; he's too stuck on the part where, entirely out of the blue, Roy's decided to propose they meet. In person. In Toronto. This month. It's seriously there, in black and white, on his computer screen, refusing to stop saying:

_I'm going to be in town for the Toronto Expo - want to make a day of it? First round's on me._

Fuck, he could use that drink Roy's offering. It might make figuring out what to do about the actual maybe going drinking with Roy thing easier. Not that the having a drink with a dude - or even a dude who likes dudes - thing is a problem, in and of itself. P.K. does that on the regular. It's the part where this dude doesn't know he's been talking to P.K. all this time. And he'd be entirely in his rights to get angry and make a scene about it when he finds out. And THAT could go badly for P.K. That's the problem.

But it's too early for a drink, too late for a run, the wrong time for a pile of junk food - and as for taking his mind off it by jerking off...just, NO. So he's stuck with himself and his thoughts. Well, unless he dropped a line to Pricey. Who still hasn't written back in response to his dating site story.

So maybe not. Ugh.

***

August 15, 2010

Carey hasn't talked to Kayla about P.K. since she cornered him back in July, when he was in town for the Anahim Lake Stampede. They haven't seen each other - and at first there wasn't anything new to say that wouldn't have ended as an embarrassing litany of 'P.K. said...'s. But when she drags him out for dinner in Nehemiah Lake, after he and Virgil take first in the team roping, he's almost glad. He's not usually a talking his feelings out kind of guy, but P.K.'s gone radio silent - as both himself and Karl - and he's honestly a bit worried. 

They get a table in a local joint, busy and loud with rodeo people - plenty who Carey knows - get their order in, eat their way through their salads. After their server brings them the locally-caught, fresh off the grill fish they ordered, Carey lays out the situation, starting with the Karl parts: how the only thing he's ever used his Farmers Only account for was messaging with Karl; how, last September, Karl had said he was going to be too busy to talk for the foreseeable future; and then how he'd showed right back up less than a month ago, wanting to tell Roy all about finally learning to ride - and how that had made him feel more like a real country boy. She knows most of the P.K. end of the story from their last conversation.

After he's caught her up on the whole circular linking situation - and how P.K. had basically laid out proof that, yes, he is Karl, Carey concludes with, "When I suggested meeting up to him - as Roy - he stopped responding. And, yeah, sure, he can end the conversation any time he wants to - nothing I can do to stop him - but P.K. doesn't just, like, flounce. And he definitely doesn't do the silent treatment." He'll avoid and deflect with the best of them, but he just about never stops talking completely. "Which probably means there's something making P.K. think that he can't just talk to me. Or Roy."

Kayla raises an eyebrow at him, drinks some of her beer. "You stopped talking, too, bro. Also, he doesn't know you're Roy, right?"

The way she says it makes him feel like he's maybe not considered how significant that one fact is. Like, okay, he already knew that P.K. didn't know they were the same person. But nothing about that seemed like something that would be making P.K. this worried. Carey doesn't think he's done anything as Roy to make P.K. think he's anything but a solid, reasonable guy. But what would he do if the situations were reversed, if he didn't know Karl was P.K. and Karl had suggested they meet?

Probably he'd arrange to make it relatively private, somewhere people wouldn't know him - and wear a hat. But he does think he'd go. Karl's a Habs fan - because P.K.'s a Habs fan (and a _Hab_ ), yes - and even if he had been too starstruck to deal with Carey as a person, he thinks Karl would've been pleased to know there was a hockey player on his favourite team who _played for his team_ , too. And that he'd get why Carey might not have felt comfortable being entirely himself on an internet dating site.

He gives Kayla the short version, says, "No.. but if I didn't know Karl was him and Karl asked me if I wanted to meet him, I'd do it."

She sighs, like he is a trial and she doesn't know why she's been stuck with him, but just asks, "Okay, but does P.K. know ANYTHING about anything farm-related that you haven't taught him?"

Carey has to admit that the answer to that is, "...probably not." P.K. and his friends had faked their way through giving Karl plausible interests, but Carey suspected liberal application of Wiki there.

Kayla nods, sharply, like that was the answer she was expecting - and then she lays it all out for him. "So he's had to lie about a lot more than you, right? You actually do rodeo, so you just have to leave out the part where you're also a goalie in the NHL. But he's a hockey player pretending to belong in that world because you happened to notice him and didn't leave him room to be anything but what his profile made him out to be. Forcing his hand to make him reveal that is a dick move."

"I just want to be able to laugh about how ridiculous the situation is with him." And he's not whining - he's NOT - but that really doesn't seem like too much to ask.

"So back off of Karl - and see if you can arrange to get together with P.K. to tell him in person." Kayla advises, flicking him upside the ear. "And make sure you apologize for being a dick about it. Because you were...though, do you understand why?"

"Because that was basically entrapment?" Carey hazards. Not, like, legally or anything. But in terms of the position it put P.K. in, yeah. It fits.

"Yep," Kayla agrees.

Carey groans, folds his arms on the table in front of him - and tips forward to rest his head on them. He foresees suggesting the Ex as an actual destination to P.K., which will suck, as he tells Kayla, "They do, like, ponies. And we won't be able to eat any of the fried food on sticks. And what kind of fair has outlets and a casino?" A fair in the middle of a city, apparently.Though it occurs to him that, "the farm stuff might actually be about P.K.'s level."

And that all sounds like a plan - which he can put in motion after he gets home and recovers from Kayla telling him off.

Though apparently he has to survive the whole celebrating your birthday with the entire restaurant gauntlet before he can even leave. A server's approaching their table, carrying a piece of pie with a candle stuck in it. And Carey can practically hear the oncoming chorus of Happy Birthday, already. 

Across the table from him, Kayla's smiling, looking secure in the knowledge that she's successfully fulfilled all the duties required of her as a sister, including embarrassing her brother in public on his birthday.

***

August 16, 2010

"Okay, what's up? 'Cos you've actually been sticking around after training the past couple days - and that's not normal. Not since you went and got yourself a 'pen-pal', anyway." The way Johnny says 'pen-pal' makes it clear he actually means 'internet boyfriend' and he's only not saying that because there're other people near enough by to make him worry about them overhearing. But he actually sounds concerned.

P.K. just 'hmms' and makes a face in response, because Johnny's not wrong, at least not about the P.K. sticking around when he normally would've been rushing home to check his email part of it. Not so much about Roy (or Pricey) being his internet boyfriend, though between the two of them they've made P.K. reluctant to refresh his inbox ever since the one of them responded and the other...didn't. And while that's not something he wants to talk about, standing on a sidewalk in the middle of downtown Mississaugua, it's just occurred to him that he wouldn't mind talking about it - talking it out - in general. And that he could bend Johnny's ears to the purpose - after all, Johnny's just gone and asked.

It's his own fault if P.K. dumps his stupid internet drama in his lap after that.

But they have a rare Monday afternoon free of training, so P.K. could sweeten the deal by suggesting lunch somewhere that will serve them large hunks of protein. Johnny's still standing there, waiting P.K. out, anyway, so, yes, time to offer, "Lunch at Jack's?" Johny'll get that he wants somewhere a little less public public for this one, like one of their more secluded back booths.

"I was gonna suggest that," Johnny says, sounding a little put out, like P.K. getting ahead of the plan is somehow a surprise.

"Well, then you won't have a problem getting a move on so we can get a good table."

"I made us a reservation."

"...you're that worried?"

And now Johnny's shrugging and looking sheepish, like he hadn't meant to admit that he'd gone to the trouble of guaranteeing them a quiet place to talk. But he just says, "You were really happy when you came back from Vancouver. And now you aren't."

And, yeah, P.K. guesses, it is about that simple, when you strip it down to the bare facts. He nods, says, "Shall we, then?" and waves Johnny on up the street with a sillily dramatic sweep of his awm. He may have a lot on his mind, but he's still himself.

As Johnny says, affectionately, "You goddamn goofball."

 

At Jack's, they're seated immediately, in an excellent booth for their purposes: way back in a corner, with empty tables two or three deep on all sides, buffered by the plush upholstery of the walls and seats - and the fine linens on the table. P.K.'s still gonna try and keep it quiet, but he thinks he can talk about the whole, dumb situation here, without worrying about it making some sports gossip page. And, hell, it's not as though he might not be courting that even if he escapes their notice today.

They still don't take up the conversation until the waiter's departed with their order for the grilled asparagus appetizer and a pair of gargantuan steaks. P.K. drains his second glass of water, after. Then he says, no preamble, "So, my 'pen-pal' wants to meet up."

Johnny follows that up with an entirely too perceptive, "And you're getting twisted up about it because...he still doesn't know he's talking to YOU?"

P.K. nods, says, "And I can't predict how he'd react to finding out, not when I've been lying about it for so long." And that's really the crux of it, the thing that makes this such a crapshoot. Most of what he's told Roy has been true at the heart of it, but he's definitely fudged some of the details - and his profile...his profile is a work of art in the medium of twisting the truth perpendicular to reality. "He'd be well within his rights to be pissed as fuck at me."

He's laid the facts out in his head a million times since that message came in; it never adds up to any answer but what he's telling Johnny: the future remains uncertain, useless as anything else a Magic 8-Ball has ever said.

But Johnny's gotten the look on that means he's thinking about how to say something, picking a thought apart and putting it back together a million times before he speaks a single word. P.K. waits; whatever's coming will come, eventually - and it'll probably be well worth the wait. Johnny's not normally any more introspective than P.K., but he can definitely turn it up when the situation calls for it. Like now, when he wrinkles his nose and asks, "He's a good guy, right?"

It's a simple question, and P.K. doesn't even have to think about it, says, "Yeah," on complete reflex. Because everything he knows about Roy says he is. He's not sure where Johnny's going with that, though; if he'd thought about it, before, he'd probably have thought Johnny already knew.

Johnny doesn't explain himself, though, just nods and continues, "The kind of guy who doesn't get angry about stupid shit?"

P.K. does consider that one for a moment, but decides that, no, the evidence doesn't point to Roy being prone to getting angry over anything or nothing. He tells Johnny, "No, he's pretty laid-back. He'll give you shit if you say something dumb, but it takes a lot to get him really worked up." Which is...actually reassuring to be reminded of.

They're not done, though - Johnny's asking, "He likes you?" and putting a hand up to forestall P.K.'s protests about lies while he continues, "And don't tell me he doesn't really know you; you're terrible enough at being anything but yourself there's no way he's not judging almost entirely based on reality."

And P.K. can't deny the truth of that, either; he's never wanted to be anything other than himself, never bothered trying. Even with Roy he just added a screen of lies and, well, mostly half-truths. He's never been good at lying about anything for real. And while he might quibble about just how much Roy likes him, he can't deny that they became friends at some point. "Okay. Yeah, he likes me. And, yeah, yeah - I'll save the arguing over the definition of like for someone who cares more about the definition of the relationship."

"So he's a good guy, who likes you - and doesn't get mad about stupid things, right?" Johnny says - and waits for P.K. to nod. Then he continues, "Just one more question: did you have a good reason for concealing your identity?"

And that leaves P.K. sitting there, brain stuck on the question. Because, well...it's complicated. He tells Johnny, "Maybe - parts of it? Parts of it maybe not so much?" Sure, he may think he has good reasons for doing things, but he's not sure what he thinks is what matters in this situation.

"You're an up-and-coming professional hockey player. There aren't any gay hockey players." P.K. opens his mouth to speak, gets cut off by Johnny adding, " _Out_ gay hockey players, whatever. Same difference for the purposes of this argument. And while you're not exactly deep in the closet, you're not interested in coming out officially, right?"

"Yeah." P.K.'s never tried to hide being bi particularly hard, but he has no interest at all in the media circus coming out officially would entail. He gets enough press already for being flashy and outspoken while being black. Being a flashy, outspoken, gay black guy, well. In a lot of people's minds that would be redundant. They'd just double-down on shoveling shit his way. 

"But your profile said you were interested in men...and you said things to this guy that confirmed that?"

P.K. nods - he's definitely talked about being bi with Roy. Not a lot, but enough that there couldn't be any question about what he'd meant. Karl isn't in the closet. Obviously.

Johnny smiles, a little 'okay, I think I've got it' smile, and asks, "So, hypothetically, say that I was the one worrying about being outed while trying to date guys - would you tell me that it was dumb to worry about what might happen if I were?"

"No." P.K. wouldn't. He doesn't like his guesses on the subject, either, particularly.

"And if it's not dumb for me to worry about it, why would it be dumb for you to be worried?"

Million dollar question right there. P.K. shrugs - it just feels dumb, like he ought to be brave enough to not worry about coming out. Or somebody outing him. And yet, here he is.

"But assuming worrying about coming out and being out is valid - and I may not be a psych or anything, but I'm gonna go with that being true for you, same as it is for me - then wouldn't you concealing your identity because of those worries be a dumb thing to get mad at you for?" Johnny asks that one quietly, almost gently, just letting the words slide themselves home in P.K.'s brain on the force of their logic.

And P.K. can see the last pieces to this, now: if it would be a dumb thing to get mad at P.K. for - and Roy isn't the kind of guy to get mad about dumb things - then shouldn't it be okay? Roy's his friend, after all. Plenty of his other friends know this about him. That's worked out okay. It's really pretty logic...but P.K.'s still doesn't believe it in his gut. "Ugh." When his hind-brain decides something, well, telling it not to is about as much use as telling ice to not be cold. It just goes on feeling however it feels like until it decides otherwise.

"No-go?" Johnny asks, sounding unsurprised. 

P.K. nods, says, "Yeah. Nice try, though." And he means it, he really does, as well as 'thanks for for understanding'. But, well, Johnny's got best friend honors for a reason.

Johnny just shrugs and inclines his head in the direction of the kitchen, says, "Well, waiter's on his way," like they weren't just getting up close and personal with P.K.'s feelings. 

The waiter's walking across the restaurant with a tray and a pitcher of water - and P.K.'s stomach rumbles, suddenly reminded that it's completely empty, testament to how hard they worked all morning. They'll do it again the next day. Maybe they should've gotten two of the asparagus. At least there's salads and steamed veggies and baked potatoes coming with the steaks.

But, seriously, P.K. has had enough of this angsting shit - he may not have a decision he's ready to make, but fuck if he's going to keep letting it get him down. Sitting around waffling about it isn't doing anybody any good, least of all him.

 

When he gets home that evening and flops down on his bed with his laptop, he's still feeling determined to not let this shit keep getting to him. He's a big boy who can use his words - and not feeling like he's ready to meet Roy isn't something he has to be able to explain, just communicate about. He still spends a couple minutes sitting on his bed, fingers digging into his comforter, steeling himself to fire up his email - before he actually does it. 

Though it's not just the old message from Roy he's bracing for - there's a good chance his agent will have had a word or two for him in the meantime, too, since he hasn't been logging in.

When he finally does enter his username and password and click the 'log in' button, it's almost anticlimactic. The old message from Roy has been buried under a week of his guys bullshitting their way through the off-season, plus one message from Johnny addressed just to P.K., dated the day before; a handful of flirt notifications; a Farmers Only account renewal notice; an assortment of e-circulars advertising sales on clothes and shoes and hockey gear; an email from his agent about rookie camp logistics and a follow-up, sent that day, checking he'd received it. 

And then there are the other two emails waiting for him, one each from Roy and Pricey. 

There's a moment when he considers that he could just let his Farmers Only account lapse, drop back to the level that doesn't give him all the advanced messaging features, make it harder to keep doing this thing with Roy. But for all that he doesn't know for sure what Roy's intentions were in suggesting they meet - and definitely isn't ready to go there - there's no question in P.K.'s mind that Roy counts as one of his friends. And P.K. doesn't take the easy way out with his friends.

Which means that he gets to read what Roy has to say and respond - and probably renew his account before the end of the month - so he clicks,

_Sorry if I made you uncomfortable by suggesting that - we definitely don't have to meet until and unless you're okay with it._

P.K. spends a moment glaring at the screen when he finishes reading the message, because fuck Roy for making him worry like that, but beneath that initial spike of anger there's relief. Roy may not be explaining anything, like what motivated him to ask in the first place, but at some point over the course of the week they spent not talking, he apparently realised that his suggestion had come out of nowhere, at least as far as Karl was concerned. And P.K.'s okay with acknowledging that and moving on for now.

So he writes back, identity safely hidden by the Farmers Only system - and then moves on to Pricey's, 

_Might be in Toronto for a couple days later this week - wanna do something? Maybe hit up the Ex?_

And THAT sets his internal weird-o-meter spinning like it can't decide which direction is weirdest. Because, no, seriously, what are the chances of Pricey inviting him to do the exact same thing Roy did...immediately after Roy backpedals on making that happen. He's not sure he believes it - or wants to believe it - but if he's right about what he's thinking, his last message to Roy just became irrelevant.

He can't let the thought go, though - and, yeah, it would be a stupid crazy coincidence, but it makes other things make sense - so P.K. hits reply, lets his fingers spell it out, hits send without letting himself think any harder about what he's just suggested to Pricey, and flops backward onto his bed afterwards, breathing out slow and careful. 

 

Carey wasn't really expecting to get an immediate reply to either of his messages. He'd been thinking more the next day, maybe. It was a Monday and P.K. had a pretty heavy training schedule, so Sunday had seemed like a safer bet. If he was going to reply this week. But while Carey's in the middle of his tenth game of spider solitaire, the new message count goes up on the tab he has his email open in. So he plays out the game - losing pretty quickly, because his attention's more on the mystery message rather than the cards - and then brings up his email again. And, yep, it's exactly the message he wasn't expecting, happy birthday to him, a reply from Karl - from P.K. - saying,

_Yeah, that was kind of out of nowhere, dude. Like, don't get me wrong - I totally count you as one of my friends. And I do think that if we ever do meet up, it'll be a good time. But I'm pretty sure you're supposed to treat arranging to meet people in person you met online like proposing marriage. Like, even if you wanna go fucking over the top with the proposal, like proposing at center ice in Le Centre Bell or some shit, you need to know, for sure, that both of you are on the same page about wanting that. You gotta talk first. And you tried to skip that part. Which made it weird._

And we could talk about it now, but, like, as curious as I am about what brought that on - and I'm definitely curious - it's been kind of a weird week and I could use a few dumb YouTube links as a buffer before we get into any potentially heavy stuff. So, uh, do your worst. I'll even take more in the vein of that weird prank war stuff if you've got 'em. 

Center ice at Le Centre Bell WOULD be a cool proposal - and P.K. just talking about proposing like it's not a weird subject to bring up with Roy when he and Karl have only been flirting for, like, a month, even if he's just using it as a, uh, what's-it-called, the thing that isn't a metaphor, that surprises a laugh out of Carey. But even if the parallel he's drawing is weird and a bit out of left field, Carey can see that P.K.'s right. That Kayla was right to say that the way he did it was a dick move. Especially since P.K. - obviously - isn't willing to even hint at what might be making it weird besides their not having discussed things first.

He's leaning back against the headboard, thinking about P.K.'s request for links - Carey's right there with him in not wanting to talk about any of it right now - when his message count goes up again. And, well, what are the chances that that's anything but P.K. replying to Carey's other message? The links can wait, might even be about to become irrelevant. Right now, he's gotta click back into his inbox, get confirmation - yep, definitely P.K. - and open the new message. Decisively. He's not so chickenshit as to hide from the consequences of his own actions.

_What are the chances that we've spent the past few weeks doubling down on writing to each other? 'Cos if I'm right about what's been going down, I've just gotta say, some of your lines? SUPER cheesey. What were you thinking? Oh, right, that you actually know me and my feelings on so terrible they come right back around to being amazing pick-up lines._

Also: you are such an asshole. But, assuming I'm right, the thing you did with the links was prank war genius. So hats off to you for that, dickhead. We have to figure out who we can get with that this season - there's gotta be some way we can use it, right? It's too good to leave as a one-off.

Carey lets out a whoosh of breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. He hadn't been sure P.K. would twig to the coincidence - or how he'd react, even if he did. But he has, and he's having what Carey can only call a better than best case scenario reaction. He's got it right, both about what's been happening and on the subject of Carey being an asshole. And Carey wants everything he's suggesting: the season they get to play all of together, the joint pranks, and the pay-off to those pick-up lines.

He already knows the sex will be good.

And he needs to go to bed soon, needs to get up early the next morning to make it to practice. But he's not doing any of that before he writes at least one more message to P.K. - going through Roy and Karl is irrelevant, now - and puts him out of his misery. It's easy, so easy, to let his fingers just poke at the keys and produce words that express at least some of what he's thinking, now that he's not trying to hide anything.

He thinks, after he's hit send, that probably the only thing that made it possible for him to keep up the deception of Roy for so long is that he had to think about all of it, every time, as he worked out how to talk about himself when the focus wasn't on his hockey - and couldn't be.

 

P.K.'s in the middle of triaging the rest of the week's worth of new stuff in his inbox - making contributions to the bullshitting threads, reassuring his agent that he's on top of the logistics (he's had his tickets since just after he got back from Twist), deleting the flirts unread - when another new message from Pricey pops up. It's been a short enough amount of time that Pricey had to have been sitting at his computer, still, maybe waiting for P.K. to respond, even. And P.K.'s instincts are all saying CLICK - and he's an instinctual kind of guy - so he does,

_I'd say close to 100%, Mr. Smooth. ;-)_

The words are all pure Pricey sarcasm, but the winky-face stops P.K. in his tracks for a moment. Because Pricey is NOT a connoisseur of emoticons, okay? P.K. doesn't think he's ever seen him use even a standard-issue smiley before. Which makes the whole thing seem frankly bizarre, like this message was typed by some weird alternate version of Pricey who goes in for obvious displays of emotion. But the email doesn't stop with confirming P.K.'s suspicions, goes right on for several paragraphs more, so he keeps reading,

_And sorry I was a dick about the whole meeting up thing. I wasn't trying to be, but I didn't know how to tell you I knew. Like, I was pretty sure you'd be better at it, hands down - which I was right about - so I tried to put the metaphorical puck on your stick. But, as we all know, I'm not so great at open-ice passing. I didn't give you any kind of heads-up or anything (as you so rightly pointed out), so you couldn't know what the play was...and we'd been playing keepaway, anyway. So, yeah, I think this is where I stop trying to explain this in hockey terms, and just apologize again._

Kayla had plenty to say about THAT.

Er, not that I wouldn't have wanted to apologize, anyway. Just, she was the one who sat me down and made me figure out how I was being a dick and what I should do about it. And she had a lot to say about only apologizing if you know what you did wrong and can mean it. Which I do, on both counts.

He reads the message through a second time once he gets to the end, because holy shit, that is Pricey with a serious case of word vomit - and he's gonna include the smiley in that, just because it really doesn't make any sense otherwise. Like, the hockey metaphors make more sense than they have any right to, considering. Though what had seemed bafflingly opaque when it was coming from 'Roy', devoid of any context, all adds up to a 'duh' kind of making sense now that he knows 'Roy' is Pricey. Pricey's a straightforward kind of guy - calm on the ice, disinclined to let the haters get to him - who works off a kind of mental social playbook. And P.K. didn't need his explanation to figure that the whole dealing with discovering their dual identities thing wouldn't have a page in there.

Of course Pricey tried to pass the whole thing off to the guy who'd barrel right through the awkward part on instinct once he thought he knew something.

His first attempt went badly, no question - but it got P.K. thinking, himself, and made the second attempt possible, so. P.K.'s ready to move on to considering the glory of the craziness inherent in the situation - because holy shit, how did they not have this fall apart on them sooner? And maybe seeing what the payoff to the flirting 'Roy' and 'Karl' have been doing could be. 

P.K. votes sex, on the regular, but then P.K. almost always votes for sex.

He thinks Pricey's on board - he was back in July, anyway - but the on the regular part only works if they're both in Montreal for the season. And there won't be ANYTHING happening if P.K. doesn't keep up his end of the conversation, here. So, words - he can probably manage a few more of those before his brain cries uncle, particularly now that he doesn't have to censor himself.

 

Carey still isn't expecting it when yet one more email from P.K. comes in, just before he was about to kick himself off the internet for the night. And he doesn't even try to resist reading it before turning in. He'll sleep better knowing what P.K. had to say in response to his apology, probably,

_First off, apology accepted - and let's just leave it at that; the situation's too weird to play the blame game over._

Yep, that would be relief Carey's feeling. Who knew? He definitely hadn't noticed being THAT worried about apologizing. But apparently he was.

_And moving on, if you still want to come to Toronto, I can provide lots of things for you to lick...or suck...or nibble._

Carey snorts, because that is P.K. to the core, shameless, shamelessly clever - and always entirely himself. But there's more to the invitation still to come,

_Seriously, how about we take a day off training to do the Ex, forget about our diet plans and eat all the fried food that strikes our fancy? I hear your metabolism is supposed to start slowing down in your mid-20s, so the window for doing this guilt-free is closing quickly. I'll even let you drag me all around the farm pavilion and educate me about the stuff I should've known BEFORE I got on Farmers Only. Or we could do other stuff, depending on what days you're in town. Your call. Hell, I won't even hold it against you if you want to stay in a hotel rather than with my family - though they might - but there's room for you in my room if you want to go that route._

On the one hand, seeing P.K.'s childhood bedroom up close and personal seems like a priceless opportunity...for chirping. On the other, a hotel means privacy without having to plan for it. The way P.K. handled himself after the first time they had sex was enough to convince Carey that P.K. wouldn't make things complicated if they did it again - and going by P.K.'s innuendo, doing it again is in the cards. Which suggests they're gonna want some of that privacy. But on the other, other hand, after his family hosted P.K. for a couple weeks, it would probably be rude to not even let the Subbans host him for a few days.

Maybe he can just get a secret hotel room that won't get used for any sleeping?

He doesn't have to figure that out tonight, though - doesn't have to do anything except go to bed, in fact - but he figures one more reply to P.K. is in order, just to let him know that Carey's amenable to P.K.'s ideas. Then sleep, perchance to dream ...or DREAM. Logistics, including his Toronto sleeping arrangements, can wait for tomorrow.


End file.
